


Oil Well Ben and the Hollywood Rustlers

by Lucius Parhelion (Parhelion)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1930s, Golden Age Hollywood, Historical, M/M, Southern California, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-01
Updated: 2009-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 20:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11388225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Lucius%20Parhelion
Summary: Now that Ben is oil-rich, he can leave his ranch long enough to hash out certain urges. His old acquaintance, Western star Tom Walker, seems like the fellow who might make matters clear. But Ben just hadn't figured on that Hollywood out-and-outer, Johnny Smith.





	Oil Well Ben and the Hollywood Rustlers

 

I

Soda Charlie craned around to look out the driver's window toward the back of the truck. Then he shifted his chaw from one cheek to the other before calling out, "You got both your bags, Mr. McClure?"

"Yep." Ben had already swung down his new suitcases from the truck bed and was dusting them off with a red cotton bandana.

Compared to a few years back, this journey into Hobbs had been easy. Last year Ben had bought his hands a '29 Ford pickup with puncture-proof tire tubes, so they no longer had to stop and fix the flats from mesquite thorns any time they drove some place. Since it was May, the road past the ranch had yet to harden into the kind of washboarding where, once you got into the wrong set of ruts, you were not getting out again before you covered the entire twenty-five miles to the county seat over in Lovington. But the trip into town had still been plenty dusty, leaving a film of grit over everything in the truck bed.

Ben finished cleaning the leather, wadded the bandana up, and tossed it through the open passenger window to join the old trail coat he had been wearing to protect his brand-new suit. "See those get cleaned up and stored away in the big house, would you?"

"Sure will. You have a good time, now, wherever the hell it is you're heading for." Soda Charlie put the truck into gear.

As Charlie drove off toward the feed store, a fresh plume of dust rose up from the street behind the pickup. Before oil had been discovered, the so-called town of Hobbs, New Mexico had consisted of a store, a couple of houses, several windmills, a combined schoolhouse and church, and a tabby cat who liked to wash up in the middle of the town's one street. Now Hobbs had lots of streets with fancy names, but real paving still trailed oil-fueled ambition. Shaking his head, Ben hoisted up his suitcases and headed for the new depot.

When he reached the head of the short line at the ticket counter, he said, "Morning, Walter." The agent and he had been in classes together, back when Ben was boarded in town so he could attend school.

"Morning, Mr. McClure. Where you heading?"

"Monahans."

"End of the line," Walter said, reaching for a ticket form. "Transferring?"

"Yep. First class, please." When Walter raised his eyebrows, Ben just smiled instead of laying out any more of his plans.

Here, at last, was a chance to keep something private from the folks who had known him his whole life. Ben had wavered right until he walked into the depot, but now he knew where he was going. Thirty-one years old, and he could finally do what wanted, not what he should. And he was going to start by heading for Hollywood, now that he could afford the trip at last.

For years, Ben McClure had battled land, cattle, and climate to try to win a living from the high plains ranch that had been his father's dream come true. This year, for no reason better than luck, that fight was over and Ben had won. Not that his money had come easily. In Ben's opinion, any negotiations in a new and booming oil patch were a lot like being sewn up in a canvas sack with five snakes, four of which were diamondbacks, and then having someone kick the bag. But Ben's pa had known everyone who settled this part of the _Llano Escatado_ , the stake plains, so Ben knew them all, too. When that first wildcat driller had come knocking on the door of the big house in '28, Ben had shoved back his weatherworn Stetson, scratched his temple, and then grinned apologetically at the fellow while shaking his head no. By the time he had closed the door, Ben was already calculating how to get ahold of the sharpest bookkeepers and lawyers he knew.

Now, in 1930, the Allwell Ranch had more drilling rigs than cattle tanks on it, and the first two wells had already come in strong. He was nothing to amaze a Wall Street banker, but he sure had the money to choose what he wanted: getting the hell out of Lea County. Suiting his deeds to his thoughts, Ben hoisted his bags back up and headed for the train tracks.

It wasn't that he didn't love the cattleman's life. But he'd spent too long doing too much with too little in harsh country, and always with the chaffing sense that something wasn't fitting him right. On bad days, Ben had stewed until Pa noticed and got that worried look. Then Ben had to paste on the smile that grew to be instinctive and find some old joke or wry saying to reassure Pa. He could quit that now if he wanted. He could act curt, talk rude, and stop behaving like a cut-rate, New Mexican version of Will Rogers, the cowboy comedian.

Even as he tried to picture the behavior of this new and ornerier Ben, his train pulled into the station. He made his way toward the first-class car -- the only passenger car that didn't look entirely battered – still toting his own bags. He was taken aback when the Negro porter reached for the suitcases, and blinked at the fellow for a few seconds before handing them over with a distracted, "Thankee. I'll be taking this train."

The porter's eyelids crinkled in a way that meant he was amused and trying not to show it. Ben found he was grinning back even as he said, "Guess I'm pretty green to this fancy traveling. You'd best see me along or I'll be wandering off like a sun-struck steer."

"We'll do what we can to prevent that, sir," the porter said gravely, his eyes still amused.

"Glad someone around here knows what he's doing."

Once he was seated in the best chair out of a kind of worn selection, Ben reconsidered his situation and decided he would save up the chance to be rude for some other adventure. He was already enough of a dude off the _Llano Escatado_ without stacking the deck against himself with bad behavior. Besides, if the past couple of years had taught him anything, it was that acting good-natured led a lot of fellows to think you were sweet and simple right up until the moment when you walked away with your entire stake and half of theirs.

There wasn't much about the familiar arroyos, sagebrush, and plains outside the window to hold Ben's attention. He did not want to contemplate the dust hanging low on the eastern horizon. The last thing they needed around these parts, as badly overgrazed as the grasslands were, was a drought. Instead, he opened up his copy of Sinclair Lewis' _Dodsworth_ and read during the trip down to Monahans. There, Ben reclaimed his suitcases and washed up before he went to talk to the new ticket clerk.

The clerk was stamping some form or other, so Ben coughed politely and then asked, "What's the fanciest way to get to Los Angeles?"

The fellow's gaze shifted up from his form to Ben's new suit -- likely a touch too flashy --and farther on to the worn and dented Stetson with the fancy silk band that Ben had added just because he could. That was when the clerk said, "Well, now, sir, you could transfer onto the Sunset Limited. It's the train the picture stars take. No coaches, though, only sleeper and drawing room cars."

"Sure, I'll give her a try," Ben said with a smile. He knew a sales pitch when he heard one, but Ben also happened to know a movie star -- hell, he was off to see a movie star -- and whatever Tom Walker deserved, Ben deserved that and then some.

He ended up in his Pullman car's one private drawing room, helpful after the four fellows who thought they could play high-low better than Ben learned otherwise. Unlike some of the neighbors back home, Pa had indulged the hands' gambling and chawing, as long as they did their jobs. In return, they had taught young Ben all sorts of useful lessons, including how to play poker with and without cheating.

He would not much care to play against a cardsharp, but he was fine with letting himself be courted by a handful of bored and wealthy businessmen, winning some of their cash while they set him up for skinning, pretending his feet had all of a sudden chilled, and then skedaddling to his private berth for more reading. Between his winnings, his books, and his musings as he admired the scenery, the trip to Los Angeles was a pleasant one.

Once he was off the train with his luggage at last, Ben eyed the redcap who had grabbed his bags before asking the fellow, "'Scuse me, do you know where a man might find a map of this town?"

Without a word, the redcap, who was kind of a good-looking fella, veered toward a newsstand. Ben quickly picked up a map of Los Angeles along with a couple of the local papers from a rack next to the candy bars. When he noticed another map labeled, "Homes of the Stars," he picked up that, too. After paying, he told his redcap, "All right, then. Could you leave me hard by the place where I can find a taxicab? Figure I'll study the lay of the land before I take my cab out toward Hollywood."

"Don’t let your driver detour to show you Griffith Park. It's way up in the hills."

Ben considered this as they exited the huge, pillared hall. "Sounds like good advice. Guess I'll save any sightseeing for when someone's doing the driving for free."

With a quick, wry smile, the redcap said, "Welcome to Los Angeles, sir." He put down Ben's bags underneath the portico and nodded toward a line of people waiting to get into a line of automobiles. "This is where you can get your cab."

After tipping the man, Ben sat down on his bigger suitcase and went through his new maps. He had just realized that the location of Tom's house on the star map was different from the return address Ben had from Tom's rare letters, when he overheard a pair of gals strolling over to join the taxi line. One said, her voice low, "Pip the cowboy."

"Not bad. I'd spend a dime on Saturday morning to watch him fire his six-shooter," was the verdict of her friend before they both moved out of earshot. Ben hid his amusement behind "Homes of the Stars." At least he had found one use for the dang thing.

Once he felt sure he knew both where he was and where he was going, he tucked away the maps and picked up his bags. Most of the herd from his train had worked through the line, so Ben had a short wait before he got into a cab.

"Where you going, Mister?" the driver asked him. He was another good-looking type, pale and Irish this time. Nice shoulders.

"Cambridge Way, over past Hollywood in Beverly Hills."

"Okay. Want I should go through Griffith Park, so you can get the view?"

"No, thankee. Don't want to visit late and walk in on supper, so if you'd just head on up Beverly Boulevard, I'd be grateful."

"Your nickel," the driver said cheerfully, pulling away from the curb.

In fact, it took a lot of Ben's nickels to get from the station to Tom's house even by the quickest way, which likely explained the driver's good mood. Ahead of them, to one side or the other of the twisty route as they drove, the sun sank down low and red toward what must be the Pacific Ocean, although Ben could not see any water. On the other hand, he wasn't looking real hard, being more interested in what he was passing.

Compared to any town he had visited before, Los Angeles seemed to go on forever. Every so often, the place almost ran out of structures, but after three or four blocks, they would start up again. It was as if someone had taken the New York City Ben had seen in photographs and flattened it out with a hammer, leaving lumps of low buildings scattered everywhere. And every place there was open space, there was also construction, slump or no slump.

All the building was kind of a pity. This land was lush to someone used to the dryness of the _llano_. Now that they were away from downtown and the smoky haze that hung low, Ben could get a better look at the foothills and mountains that surrounded them. Only seasonal grasses grew in those hills, if he was any judge, but there were trees along their folds, hinting at water.

As for the mountains -- Jehoshaphat, they were tall. Impressive. Likely good territory for summer grazing, what with all those forests. Ben wished he were here only to track down the local ranchers and jaw about the cattle that must be run outside this city somewhere. But Ben was here for all sorts of reasons. And his most urgent reason was to learn if he was as much of a Nancy as he thought he must be.

He would just bet Hollywood was the town where he could find that out.

 

II

When they stopped on the road below Tom's place, Ben was confronted by an iron gate backed by a big hedge, a long driveway sweeping up the hill that made the hedge kind of useless, all sorts of fancy cars parked along that driveway, and a huge house looming over them all. The house seemed lost, what with the half-timbering and a roof that Ben guessed was supposed to look thatched. Sure, he was no expert on foreign parts, but he still didn't think this countryside was much like England.

His driver must have mistaken Ben's silence for worry. "You want me to wait?"

"Nope. We don't have many houses like that back in Lea County, is all."

"You ain't seen nothing yet. Wait until you get an eyeful of some of the castles and haciendas farther up the hills. Hey, I think I can squeeze up to the front door."

Eyeing the narrow strip of driveway beside all the big sedans, Ben said, "Maybe I'd better walk."

The driver turned in the front seat. "You sure you don't want me to wait?"

"Nope."

"Your funeral. If your pal the movie star ain't home or something, the Beverly Hills Hotel is two blocks down and a block east. You can get a room there, or the doorman will find you another cab."

"Thankee. Always nice to have a belt to help out my suspenders." Ben reached for his wallet.

"Need a hand with the bags?"

"We made it from New Mexico together, so I guess we can make it up this little ol' hill."

"Okey-doke. Good luck, mister." The driver took his fare and tip before touching fingers to forehead in a salute that seemed a trifle mocking.

As the taillights of the cab disappeared down into the shadows stretching out from the hills, Ben took another look around. Lights were gleaming through the trees and shrubs where other big houses sat, and he thought he could hear faint music from Tom's place. In the hills beyond, above where people had plunked down all their new and fancy buildings, a coyote yipped. A dog barked back from one of the fancy spreads.

Ben wondered for a moment if he should have kept his cab. Then he squared his shoulders, hoisted up his bags, strode through the open iron gates, and started hiking up the driveway.

He had just noticed that the vehicle at the end of the line was not another fancy sedan car, but a dirt-spattered pickup truck, when a voice from inside it said, "Psst! Psst!"

Turning, Ben put his suitcases down on cobblestones. "You need something?"

"I guess that wasn't very smooth." A man opened the driver's door and clambered out. Then he paused, studying Ben. That left Ben free to study him right back.

So far, the men in Hollywood were an awfully fine-looking lot. This one was a whippy, tall fellow about Ben's age, with curly black hair and skin of a shade halfway between the cab driver's and the redcap's. Pity the driveway was too dim to get a good gander at the true shade of his dark eyes. Back home, Ben might have pegged him as part Indian or Spanish or Mexican, but his features were not quite right for that. There was nothing special about his clothes for a city fella: just a casual shirt and tie beneath a dusty sport coat. He had a fedora clutched in his hand. Something about him sure was familiar, though. Maybe it was the way he stood with his weight shifted forward onto his toes, as if he was going to start bouncing on them any second, now.

The man was done with his own examination. "You're a riding extra, right? Pal of someone at the party?"

Ben raised both eyebrows, waiting for more explanation.

"Introductions. Sure. Me first. Johnny Smith, I kid you not. And you?"

Well, the fellow had misread Ben's gesture, likely on purpose, but he had also done the mannerly thing. "Ben McClure." Ben didn't offer a hand for shaking. Yet.

"Okay. I have to ask you for a favor. You see, it's like this--" Mr. Johnny Smith stopped talking long enough to frown. "Say, I know you from somewhere."

"I was thinking that myself."

"You're kind of familiar. No, you're just plain familiar. You ever been in a Western made by Everest, Mammoth, or maybe Constitution Studios?"

"You ever been in Hobbs, New Mexico?"

"Hobbs--" Mr. Smith stopped dead. Everything about his posture signaled surprise. "Shit! I mean, shoot! That kid from the Feelgood Ranch, Ben."

"Allgood. Dang it, Allwell." Ben did not bother staying annoyed. "You're… let me see, now." He stepped in close enough to get a good look even in the dim. Then, slowly, he said, "You're Janos. Your pa was Mr. Kovacs, the peddler who took photographs and fell so ill. Janos Kovacs."

"Johnny Smith now." He could see the Adam's apple shift as Johnny swallowed. Ben could not blame him. He felt a touch queasy himself. They had not known each other long, but, thanks to Tom, their few weeks spent together had been real memorable.

Just as Ben was trying to find something smoother to say than, "Well, how you been doing since that barn, Johnny Smith?" the faint sounds of music suddenly got louder, as if a door had opened somewhere. That was when Johnny found a lot more words to say, fast and low. "Look, I still need that favor, and I think it's an even better idea now than before, so how about you play along? Sling your bags into the back of my truck."

Johnny was the one who knew the lay of this land, so Ben did as he had been asked. Then Johnny took Ben's arm and steered him up the drive toward the front door, laughing as if they had just shared a thigh-slapper.

They were halfway up the drive before they were met by an older woman wearing a maid's dress and a sour expression. Without missing a beat, Johnny said, "Hello. Johnny Smith from Constitution Studios. Not to interrupt the party, but could Inez Altura find a minute to talk to us? I have a message for her from Tom Walker."

In the light spilling out from the open door, her lips pursed up like she had bitten into a lemon before she said, "If you would care to wait in the foyer, sir, I will inquire with Madam."

Johnny marched Ben along with him right past the big door made of dark wood and studded with fake nails. They entered a high hall paved with flagstones, hung with banners, and overlooked by a huge wooden staircase that curved up to a railed landing overhead. The maid went off some place, still looking sour, leaving Ben to say softly, "I thought this was Tom's spread."

The glance Johnny gave him was startled. "It is. He and Miss Altura are married, but because of her career--" His expression clouded. "Say, now. Didn't he write you?"

Ben snorted. "All he wrote me was how I should visit. Twice, after my first well came in."

"Hey. You're Oil Well Ben. That's what he called you, Oil Well Ben." Johnny shook his head, frowning. "If I had figured out which Ben he was talking about--"

Before he could finish, a door to one side of the entrance hall opened and the music grew clearer again. Now Ben could hear laughter from deeper in the house, and the sounds of folks jawing real loud. But a fellow would have had to be blind to ignore the woman who stood in the doorway long enough to eavesdrop. Given how she was dressed and held herself, not to mention the platinum blonde beauty that propped up her attitude, she was all set to clip and brand three Wall Street millionaires, a Ruritanian prince, and a Texas cattle baron.

Then the expression on her face, which Ben would have wagered did not bode well for Johnny Smith, shifted from smoldering resentment to puzzlement as she took in Ben. She lowered her hands from where they had gracefully clasped the doorjambs.

Before she could tell them what had changed her mind, Johnny rushed in with, "Hello, Inez. Tom asked me to pick up his fancy saddle and bridle, the ones with all the silver, for tomorrow's shoot. He said they were parked on a saw-horse in the master bedroom?"

Ben didn't think Johnny had meant that sentence to come out as a question, but Miss Altura's attention had moved back to Johnny as he talked, which was enough to shake a fellow. Being freed from her stare felt like stepping indoors out of the noonday sun. When she spoke, her voice was low and lush. "He sent you all the way down here for those pieces of junk?"

"I was already running some errands, dropping off film at the labs."

"A guy could get killed, making that drive back and forth in the dark." The possibility seemed to interest her.

"Nah, not with Ben riding shotgun. Oh, have you two met? Inez, Ben McClure. Ben, Miss Inez Altura."

"Charmed, ma'am--" Ben started, but before he could say anything more, Johnny rushed in with, "Ben will be punching me in the arm a lot if I look like I'm dozing off. Anyhow, if you can't lay hands on the--"

"Sure I can. In fact, you might as well take them and go." For the first time, she smiled. Somehow, the smile had less effect on Ben than her earlier annoyance had. "I'll tell Albert to bring it all downstairs to you. I know you have a long drive ahead of you, Johnny, and I can't be away from my guests for too long." With one more, considering, glance at Ben, she turned and went back into the room from which she had emerged. A moment later, the door shut behind her.

"Phew," Johnny said, "That went a lot better than it could have." At Ben's look of inquiry, he said, "I'll tell you later. Here comes the butler."

The butler looked pretty plug-ugly for fancy help to Ben, but the fellow seemed to know his job, so Ben was not bellyaching. Five minutes later, Ben slung a saddle decorated with way too many silver plates and conchos for his taste into the back of the pickup truck even as Johnny started her up. Then Ben covered over the saddle and tack, along with his suitcases, with an old tarp before he got into the passenger side. His feet had barely left the cobblestones before Johnny was backing down the drive.

When Johnny got them onto the street, he stopped the truck. "I can let you off at the Beverly Hills Hotel if you like. Or someplace cheaper."

"If you want to know what I would like here and now, that would be an explanation."

"Y'know, somehow I knew you'd say something like that. So how about we get the hell out of Beverly Hills and find a place where I can get some grub and use the john? Otherwise, I'll have a nasty trip across the Valley."

"Sure was some fine hospitality, back there."

"She had her reasons. Good thing you came along when you did." Without elaborating, Johnny shifted his truck into drive and headed them east, toward what Ben now knew was Hollywood.

Ben let maybe a minute pass before he said, "Seems to me, we might have to chew over matters that you might not want overheard in a restaurant."

"You referring to how we'd barely met back in lovely Hobbs, New Mexico before we shook hands with each other's cute young dicks?"

At least the growing dark hid Ben's flush. After whistling out some breath between his teeth, he asked, "God damn. How come you haven't been hanged yet? I have to say, you are guilty of bluntness in the first degree."

"Now, there's a question I'd bet has been asked all over this town. I was taking a shortcut to finding out how much trouble you would be if I slipped and referred to interesting history."

"Kind of a dangerous method you chose, there."

"Not too dangerous. I'm driving in the dark down a street you don't know, so I don't see you taking a punch that's not to my arm. And if you looked set on causing trouble, the cops in this town are more likely to recognize my credentials than yours."

Johnny had a point. Two points.

"Also, I remember the way you used to be." Johnny cleared his throat. "Sort of sweet. You know. For a kid cowboy dealing with a peddler's son. Funny, now and then. You smiled a lot."

Ben slumped down in the seat. "I swear, the minute I get home, I am turning into the meanest son of a bitch in Lea County."

"Have fun with that, but you're in L.A. County right now. You don't want to go to the Brown Derby, do you?"

"Brown derby?"

"New restaurant, so-so menu, lots of stars. I guess you don't read many movie magazines. Say, have you been stuck in the _llano_ all these years?"

"Yep. And I don't need to see any more stars. Miss Inez Altura will do. Bad enough I still have to meet up with Tom Walker again."

There was a brief pause. "Yeah. About that."

"About what?"

"About--" In the brief light from a passing pair of headlights, Ben could see Johnny shake his head. "Never mind. I need food for this part of the conversation. Let me buy you dinner, all right? I owe you."

"I guess you do. Although there's one question I do need answered before we go any further."

"Oh, yeah?" Johnny sounded wary. "Shoot."

"I will. Did you go and grow up into a hom'sexual, Johnny Smith?"

"And he talks about me being blunt." Ben heard a deep breath. "I'm not sure if 'grow up into' are the right words. More like 'are you a.' But, yeah. And there are two occurrences of the letter 'o' in the word ho-mo-sex-u-al, by the way."

"Just one 'a' in Mister Smarty City Fellow, though."

"True. From which I take it, you're no more likely to throw a punch than you were a minute ago."

"Yep."

Silence fell. Whatever else had happened to him, Johnny sure had not grown up either yellow or a liar. His hands were steady as he signaled a left turn and took the truck out into the traffic on a main road. Only manners kept Ben from staring at him, wondering about-- Hell, wondering all kinds of things that were none of Ben's business, come to think on it.

Johnny was the first one to speak, and his voice was even when he did. "How about you? Have you managed to reform since those evil, evil days when we all had our fun out in the Walker family barn?"

"Maybe." Ben slid a little further down in the seat. "I don't know. Haven't had the chance to be certain-sure, not in Lea County. God damn Tom Walker, anyhow."

"Y'know, you can blame Tom for an awful lot of things, but I don't think you can blame him for any shortage of chances for certainty. Those were some real fun and games we had." Johnny's voice was amused, dang him.

"I sure as hell can try."

"Okay, that's fine, that's great. I admire a man who's persistent. For right now, we'll just say you're fresh in from the countryside and leave it at that. Let's go and get some grub."

They ended up seated in the small back room of a Chinese restaurant over in Hollywood. Ben studied the menu intently before saying, "I guess you'd better order for me."

"First time eating Chinese?"

"Fresh in from outside Hobbs? New Mexico? On a ranch? I'm looking forward to trying something new."

"Fine. Tell you what. I'll order a bunch of different dishes, and we can pack up what's left when we're done, for me to take along. My drive is only a couple of hours, and the extra food will last long enough for the film crew to eat it. They should be asleep by the time I arrive, but they'll probably still be up playing cards."

The waiter was almost at their elbow in the small back room, so Johnny only had to turn his head to get the fellow's attention. Then he and the waiter traded words that might as well have been gibberish even if they were both talking good English.

The waiter having departed, Johnny looked around the room, leaned in close across the small table, and said, "So. Tom Walker."

"Yep?" If Johnny had to tuck in this tight, at least he smelled good: mostly clean with traces of dust and sweat from the work of the day. None of that fancy cologne those businessmen on the train had worn.

"Okay, how do I put this? Tom has reformed. Except he's not 'certain-sure' about his reformation, no matter what he says."

"Huh. I guess that figures, having known Tom."

"Also, now he's a star. Not as big a star as Inez, but a star. Did you know she was a movie star?"

"Nope. Explains a lot, though."

"If you stick around, never let her know you didn't recognize her at once."

"Should have guessed. She sure had something."

"So does Tom. Not all of them do, off-camera, for which I am pathetically grateful. Otherwise we'd be too busy rounding up rioters and putting out fires to make movies in this town."

Ben was about to grin at the joke, until he recollected the way Tom had been able to ramrod his favorites among the boys who boarded with his family and lived around town into all sorts of mischief. Considering what that mischief had turned into once they started growing up, Johnny might not have been altogether kidding.

"Anyhow, Tom's still kind of… you can't call it dangerous, but you can't call it not dangerous, either. Whimsical? Yeah, whimsical. Maybe even impulsive. Especially when it comes to being uncertain and unsure." At the end of all that twisty talking, Johnny looked kind of helpless while he checked to see if Ben had understood any of his jawing.

Ben considered him. "You're saying Mrs. Walker -- Miss Altura -- has a real good reason to be annoyed with you. Rustling."

"I forgot you were smart. It wasn't my fault, or even with me, that Tom was impulsive. In your lingo, I wasn't the rustler. Not this last time, anyhow. But she thinks it was me, and just as well."

"But, after all that, Tom sent you to fetch his saddle, alone. The fancy one he stores up in his bedroom." Even Ben could hear the wonder in his own voice as he said, "God damn Tom Walker, anyway."

"Look, you can't break anything, when you see him again. We only have two days left to get this film into the can on schedule. Besides, I don't think he plans out stuff like this ahead of time or considers all of what could happen. My little errand fetching and carrying was just a, I don't know, a way to prove he's still the star even though he's having to make pictures at a studio that's about two feet away from Poverty Row right now." Johnny shook his head. "Let's talk about something else for a while, okay?"

"That's fine, given I understood maybe half of what you just said. Some movie or other is important. Tom is still slippery. I can't hit him. That right?"

Johnny snorted, amused. "That's it, all right."

The something else they talked about proved to be all the odd things on plates that waiters showed up with, right around then, to unload onto their table. This kind of new food was good, just different.

Johnny was using chopsticks to eat his own dinner, which was a hell of a lot more amusing to watch than read about. He stopped chewing long enough to say, "Hey, you like that dumpling, don't you?" Gesturing with his sticks, he said, "So try the lo mein, those skinny noodles over there. I asked them to use real spicing, not the tourist stuff."

Ben added some noodles to his plate. "Tasty. You think I could manage a pair of those sticks?"

"Only if you want this sauce all over that new suit. You're determined to see Tom, aren't you?"

"Traveled about eight hundred miles in the past few days to do so."

"Sure. Right. Well, I owe you, and I need something other than me to distract Tom right now. Why don't you drive up north with me?"

"What's Tom doing up-- Oh, I savvy. Making all those movies."

"That's right. Making all those movies. My movies."

When Ben looked inquiring, Johnny flourished a chunk of chicken with his sticks and said, "I direct the westerns he's starring in for Constitution Studios." He struck a pose.

The chicken chunk ended up in his soy sauce. Johnny, to give him credit, laughed.

 

III

Ben was feeling sleepy when Johnny suddenly said, over the noise of the truck engine as he drove, "I thought you would argue more. About this trip."

"I don't know why. I want to see Tom; you have him off some place making moving pictures. I head out with you, I get to see him."

"Although you're not going to break him."

"Nope, I'm not breaking him. Won't even muss him up, even though I bet he'll say something to deserve that, at least."

"No bet."

"How about you? You worried I'm going to change my mind and punch you not in the arm because of what you told me?"

"Hey, it's been known to happen."

"Not when someone's doing me a favor, it hasn't. And I'm sorry I had to go and blurt out that question at you. It's just-- I guess that's most of why I came to see Tom. Why I came out to Los Angeles. I've been wondering, you see, and there wasn't much room for wondering around Hobbs."

"I get you. Although I wouldn't ask Tom to help you with your particular question."

"The others all drifted off. He was the one fellow I knew where I could find him to ask. And how come I'm talking about Tom Walker again?"

"Because he's the star, and this is Hollywood."

"There's nobody else in this place who counts but movie stars? What about you? How've you been doing?"

"Fine, thank you, since I had an uncle who owned a film laboratory and dreamed of empire. He's the one the family sent me to live with after Papa died."

"Sorry to hear that. We all wondered what happened to you."

"You did, you mean; you and your father. Your father was the only one kind enough to take in a couple of dark and foreign-looking peddlers after Papa got so sick. And you were the one who kept an eye on me once they sent me off to board for school so I wouldn't have to watch while Papa—Anyhow, you never did say anything about me being--"

"Now, now. You did fine. You did right well, fitting in with the rest of us as nice and friendly, uh---" Maybe that last part hadn't come out just the way Ben had meant it to.

In one of his fast switches of mood, Johnny snickered. "Yeah, I guess I did do well. At least, you seemed to think so at the time."

Feeling himself flush, Ben changed the subject. "Your uncle owns this place where you make your pictures?"

"Constitution Studios? He does now. You'd be surprised what you can pick up cheap and piece together from fellows who can't pay their bills for processing their film footage or renting a sound truck. Shoestring studios. Distribution rights. Other people's contracts. Mine, for example." He paused to sigh before adding, "Shares in a movie ranch."

"That where we're going? A movie ranch?"

"Uh-huh. The Red Gulch Ranch."

"Now, there's a name. Almost as good as the Allwell. Any real hands on this ranch of yours?"

"Not my ranch, Constitution Studios'. Which is to say, my uncle's. At least, about half of it is my uncle's. But, yeah, there are a couple of ranch hands, _vaqueros_ I guess, on the spread besides the riding extras who are sent up by Central Casting. Who else do you think tends all the horses and cattle we need for westerns?"

"Why are you asking me? I only ever went to one western picture and it was the durndest thing I have seen in all my days. Nothing like the way my hands and I really live."

Johnny snorted. "You don't have to tell me that. Papa and I peddled our wares from west of Amarillo to clear past Silver Springs, remember? Movies aren't about filming what is or what was; they're about filming what the audience wants to see."

"As near as I could tell, what that boils down to is filming some horses, lassos, Stetsons, and cowboys, and then turning everything else about ranching katywhumpus while everyone rides around shooting revolvers into the air or at each other."

"Want a job writing scripts? You seem to have the basic idea."

"Not me. I am taking a vacation. My first ever."

"After you talk to Tom."

"After I talk with Tom. Do you think I might like the South Seas?"

"The scenery's supposed to be nice. Both the male and female varieties. Maybe it'll help you get certain and sure."

"Maybe." Cautiously, Ben decided he liked this grown-up Johnny Smith. Johnny moved fast and cracked wise, but he had also been nicer and braver than he'd had to be. There was still something of the peddler's polish and push to him, but Ben found that familiar enough after these last years of dealing with bookkeepers, bankers, lawyers, and wildcatters. And Johnny's easy way of speaking about what had happened back in the Walker barn and what it had meant, let Ben think about those days with sheepishness instead of hot discomfort for the first time in years. "I guess I want a good look around Los Angeles before I go anyplace else."

"Glad to see you know Tom's not the only attraction in town. We have plenty of sights for the discerning. Even for the not so discerning."

"Well, I don't know which one of those I would be, but I guess I'm getting a chance to find out." Ben considered. "You have any time off?"

"Hah. Me? I direct B movies, which means I do everything for myself except the make-up and would be doing that, too, if I knew how. But I do spend about half my time working down in Hollywood at Constitution's so-called studios, so I am supposed to have at least one day in seven off at home. Sometimes it even happens." There was a pause. "Are you asking me to show you around?"

"Yep."

"Show you around, or Show You Around?"

"Both, I guess? Now that I have a choice between guides."

"Huh." He could sense Johnny thinking. "Me and not Tom. Well, you didn't get dumb, staying in Hobbs. Okay. I'll introduce you to the local flamingos."

"Flamingos?"

"Old pal, you haven't lived until you've visited the bird show, especially the human kind. First, though, you're going to get to see a genuine movie location since Tom's staying in the local burg's one hotel and won't be back on the ranch before his morning call. I can reintroduce you then."

"You're just worried about me breaking him, Johnny Smith."

"I'm a properly cautious guy if I do say so, myself. Besides, the trip will give you a chance to ask the ranch hands a bunch of questions about our California cows, which I'd bet you're eager to do if I remember you right."

"No bet." Ben found he was smiling in the dark.

After dinner, they had driven north from Hollywood through a narrow and twisty canyon across some hills. Now the road had dropped into a big valley, one with its distant reaches still in farms, from what scenery Ben could make out by the light of a newly risen moon.

For the most part, he kept quiet as they drove, except to make sure now and again that Johnny didn't seem sleepy. Ben had a lot to think about, and the comfortable rumble of the engine was the same soothing sound he would have used to help his pondering while he and Soda Charlie, or one of the other old Allwell hands, were driving back and forth to Hobbs. Ben was a touch surprised Johnny wasn't talking more. Maybe he also had a lot to think about.

When they drove through the center of another small town, Johnny spoke at last to say, "This is San Fernando, known for its California Mission. Very historic. There are plaques. You might want to visit sometime, to savor the local potential. Do you need a break?"

"Only been on the road an hour, hour and a half, at most. I'm fine."

"I'll keep going, then. After this burg, we really get out into the boonies, away from the farming and up toward the range land." Ben could hear Johnny's grin without seeing it. "They run a lot of sheep in the hills, I understand."

"Now you're just being provoking. Go on driving."

They reached the north end of the valley, where the road started to climb again. A mile or so after they crossed over some railroad tracks that they had been paralleling, the pick-up approached the mouth of a tunnel. Johnny slowed to a stop, cranked down his window, turned his lights on and off, and sounded his horn a couple of times. Then he listened.

"Kind of narrow," Ben noted.

"Yeah, and they run farm trucks loaded with hay through it, so there's always a chance of kaboom. You should see the road cut it replaced, though, over to the east. Maybe fifteen feet across and about ninety feet deep, sliced right into the rock of the pass. I must have cranked the camera on six or seven scenes staged there over the years. One director even had his star run and jump across the damn thing. The thought of having to do another take if I screwed up the shot put my heart right into my mouth."

As Johnny drove with slow care into the narrow entrance of the tunnel, they lost the moonlight and the cool, sweet air gave way to the smell of exhaust. The truck cab seemed very close as Ben asked, "You started as a cameraman?"

"Easy job, when you grew up taking photographs and processing film. My kin being in the business also meant I knew the cost of what I was cranking. Directors liked that, and now I know why."

"Surprised you didn't end up a businessman like your uncle did."

"He's nice enough -- at least, to family -- but he wasn't Papa and didn't try to be. I'm grateful, looking back."

"Oh?"

"I think, if he has any suspicions, they're easier to ignore with a nephew than they would be with a son."

"Sure."

"He did go to the trouble of roping me back in again to direct movies for him when he decided to become a cut-rate mogul. That's something, at least."

Ben, thinking of his own shortage of close kin, said, "Yep. That surely is something."

They left the state highway they were following in another little town, when Johnny turned them sharply left onto a road heading back into a canyon cut into the foothills they had just crossed. This new dirt road was not much good, but it was better than Ben had expected, given how rough the terrain was in these parts.

As if he had read Ben's mind, Johnny said, "There used to be gold mining around here, back in the last century. They poked around looking for oil, too, although they didn't find much near the Red Gulch Ranch. Some of the local plains are in farms, since we're close to the aqueduct, but these hills go up into a national forest that's watershed for the area. Great terrain for the pictures.

"That's why Old Man Henley got clever back in the teens and decided to start a sideline keeping horses for all the pictures filmed in the valley and up north. He'd put together quite an operation before he ran into trouble and had to sell shares last year. Then he went and busted his leg a few months later. I hear he's not healing well."

"That happens, on a ranch. You like this place?"

"I could claim nostalgia. But, to be honest? What I really like is my bosses having a hard time getting to me. I'm not sure exactly how far we are from Constitution, but I know it's around thirty-five miles away, and they don't want to travel that far."

"Why thirty-five?"

"Because anything more than that, and the studio is supposed to pay the crew and cast a travel allowance. All the biggest movie ranches are twenty, thirty miles out from Hollywood. Here we go." He turned off the road between two trees, and rattled them over a cattle guard toward some faint lights in the darkness. "Damn it, I knew they'd still be up. Am I the only one who remembers we start shooting at six-thirty tomorrow? Almost today?"

"Well, now, you'll sure show them the error of their ways, what with your extra Chinese food and all."

"Still one hell of a comedian, Ben Rogers." Johnny pulled up next to a row of several vehicles of varying ages and conditions, all dusty in the gleam of his truck's headlights. Switching off his lights, he turned off the truck. "I am tempted to leave that saddle in back all night."

"Hey, now, none of that. They may not be to my taste, but those pieces are good workmanship. How about you use all that chuck to bribe someone else into fetching them in?"

"Good idea." Johnny took a deep breath and let it out. "Welcome to the Red Gulch Ranch, second home to any western star who can't flee fast enough. Have fun; don't break Tom."

"I hear you. Come on, Johnny Smith. We're wasting what could be bedroll time."

Johnny snickered. Ben punched him in the arm.

 

IV

Whether back in New Mexico, out in Hollywood, or on a train somewhere in between, cards seemed to be the constant. Most of the bunkhouse they entered was separated off behind a solid-seeming wooden wall. Ben could hear faint snores from that direction.

But right at hand, sitting around a table on folding chairs, a bunch of fellows -- and one gal -- were playing poker in the light from a pair of Coleman lanterns hanging from hooks. They mostly glanced over at the sound of the door opening, and Ben saw the slight shift in postures from the men that meant a straw boss had entered the room. The blonde, a good-looking young filly with a bright air about her, did not look up from her hand. Instead, she put it face down on the table in front of her before sliding two chips back out of the ante. Then she turned.

"Is that Chinese I smell?"

"Cold Chinese, by now," Johnny said.

"Do I care? Gimme."

"Ah, ah, ah. This is not for free. I need someone to pull Tom Walker's saddle and tack out of the back of my truck and put them away, carefully, over in the prop shed."

There was an exchange of glances between the men as some sort of pecking order was sorted out. Then an older fellow said, "Henry will do it. Given the cards he's been being dealt, he needs to sit out for a hand or two, anyhow."

With an air of resignation, a large young man got up and headed for the door.

"I'll save you an egg roll," the blonde called after him. Then she turned back to Johnny and asked sweetly, "Well?"

"Yeah, sure." Johnny headed for the table and set down the bags he had been carrying. Ben did the same. The next few minutes were like dumping out bales of hay in the middle of a starving herd during a snowstorm.

By the time everything got sorted out, Ben found he had somehow sat down next to the blonde, who was examining him with interest while Johnny quietly argued about something with three of the older card players over in a corner. "Do I know you?" she asked.

"Nope," he said. Then, when her inquiring look did not alter a bit, he added, "I'm fresh into town, just touring. A friend of-- Johnny's."

"Oh, from the Old Country. I thought you had that authentic, weathered look, even without the usual riding boots and waist overalls. Want some pork fried rice?"

"No, thankee, I ate earlier."

"Good. More for me. I'm Miss Blake, the plucky girl heroine." All of a sudden, her brown eyes got real wide and liquid. One of her hands flew up to cradle a cheek. "Oh, no. Pa has gone and mortgaged our ranch to the villainous Mr. Sneer again; whatever shall I do?"

Ben snorted. "Move to Lubbock, get a job at the Woolworth's, and marry a fellow with some money. Or, if you're altogether tired of menfolks' nonsense, learn to typewrite, find lady friends, and get a cat or two."

She gravely considered him. "I think I'll enjoy you, Mr. Whoever-you-are. Pass me that chow mein, please."

He did. "Ben McClure. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise, I'm sure. Do you also know Tom Walker? He always says he met Johnny out on the range, for what little such claims are worth around this town."

"Yep. His family did live in Hobbs, but they turned their hands to whatever they could: farming, mostly. Repairs and laundry. Boarding kids for school."

"Ooo, you'd better not say any of that in front of studio publicity. So, given that you do know him, can I pretty-please beg you not to distract him tomorrow? We're filming the scene before the big cattle stampede, and he's not as good a rider as he thinks he is when he's showing off."

"You're worried he'll lose his seat?"

"I'm worried he'll miss. I stand, struggling valiantly with my bonds -- I told our scriptwriter I was done with idiotic screaming -- but all in vain. Then he rides in to scoop me up. We gallop away together, very romantic. Cut to the runaway cattle thundering across where I was lying. It'll be thrilling."

"Sounds kind of dangerous to me. Shouldn't someone be handling that sort of job for you?"

"On our budget? We can't afford the blonde wig. Anyhow, Johnny knows what I can do, and he uses that." Her look in Johnny's direction mixed irritation, respect, and affection.

"Well, I can wander off until lunch time or so, if Johnny doesn't mind."

She snorted. "Once the cameras start rolling, he won't remember you're alive unless he needs you for a scene." Her gaze was critical. "I suppose you'd do for a speaking extra. Maybe the cowboy who makes a play for me outside the saloon, given your looks. Your voice is good, too."

"Now, hold on--"

"Oh, don't worry. There are plenty of fellows from Central Casting who yearn for that kind of role. Even working for Constitution, Johnny has a good reputation. Notice how he lets crew bunk here if they want, so they don't have to make the drive to L.A. and back every single day? Or deal with grabby salesmen whenever I stay in that Podunk hotel over in town, in my case."

Done with his dispute, Johnny came over and sat down. Moodily, he took one of the open oyster boxes and began eating some sort of rice out of it with a spoon. "Sweetheart, the day you can't cope with hick salesmen--"

"Darling, there are evenings when a sleeping bag on a camp cot is infinitely preferable to running the quarter mile or engaging in wrestling matches." She leaned in, kissed his cheek, and said sincerely, "I like Mr. McClure. Can I keep him?"

"Does he look domesticated? I don't think so."

Ben did his best to seem solemn. "I may be housebroken, but I eat an awful lot, and I have been told I drool. You might want to get one of those yappy little dogs, instead."

"Spurned," she said cheerfully, and filled her mouth with chow mein.

Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. "Ben. Look. I know I promised you time to have a word with Tom, but we've fallen behind because of the sound equipment having problems, yet again--"

Ben held up a hand. "Miss Blake, here, already told me how he can't be distracted until you are done with some cattle disaster tomorrow. If you'll just write me a note of introduction to Mr. Henley so no one thinks I'm trespassing to see the movie stars--" he tipped his Stetson to Miss Blake and she dimpled, "--then I'll borrow a horse and wander around. No offense, but I'm just as interested in the local ranching as in your movie making."

"Sure, hold on. And why aren't all my problems this easy?" Putting down his spoon, Johnny pulled out a much-used pocket notebook and started writing in it with an automatic pencil. "You'll need this note to borrow a horse. Riding is not free around here. And good luck getting one off the string who isn't a real piece of work. On my sets, the best ones go to my very expensive lead actors or to fellas who have to risk their necks falling off of them, period."

"Gosh. Before you break your neck tomorrow, Ben, you have to come to breakfast," Miss Blake put in. "We all share, and I brought along steaks. Iced."

"Can't refuse an offer like that for my last meal. Need any help cooking or washing up? What time is breakfast?"

"Given the call, and wardrobe, and makeup, and setting up the initial shots before the extras arrive? Five in the morning." She glanced at her fancy wristwatch. "Less than five hours from now."

"Cripes." Johnny did something with his voice so that it did not get loud, but did travel. "Would you people please stop screwing around and get some sack time?"

He was quietly heckled, but Ben noticed the eating sped up and the remaining cards and chips vanished.

"Why don't you bunk with me?" Johnny asked, as the men headed behind the divider and Miss Blake disappeared toward wherever she resided, after another kiss on Johnny's cheek.

That had been one of Johnny's commands disguised as a request. "Sure."

They moseyed over to a small building mostly filled with what must be filming equipment. One corner had been turned into a campsite. Johnny unfolded an extra army cot he had stowed against the far wall and then retrieved a bedroll that he tossed to Ben. "You would not believe how quickly offering this to my so-called producers who do brave the trip, gets them off the ranch."

"I surely would." Ben paused from spreading out the bedroll. "You going to be okay with everyone knowing I'm in here?"

In the light of the single lantern, Johnny's face was serious. "Look, Los Angeles may feel like the big city. But with more fellas like me around, people know to look for us. I'm in big trouble if I'm spotted, especially by a cop or a reporter. And getting antsy about stag company would make everyone pay closer attention to me. If, on the other hand, I keep calm, they see what they expect. We're no different from New Mexico, that way."

"I guess."

"You want me to turn off the lantern before you get ready for bed?"

"Why? I don't think I have anything that you haven't already seen."

Johnny smiled. "I wouldn't want to crowd you while you make up your mind."

"I appreciate that."

"On the other hand, I'm also willing to watch and admire, at length. Part of being a good director."

"You go to hell on a snake-bit mustang. But turn off the lantern first."

Johnny just laughed.

A minute or two later, in the dark, Ben asked, "You supposed to be sharing blankets with Miss Blake?"

"Cripes." There was a pause. "Supposed to be, yeah. Why?"

"She's awfully young-looking."

"Those looks aren't deceiving. But if she's known to be screwing around with me, she's got an excuse to not screw around with any of the thousand other fellas in Hollywood who try to make her. I have just enough in the way of influence and connections to keep her safe. Any other questions?"

"Well, not right now, at least."

"I am so grateful. Get some sleep or you'll be sorry tomorrow. In fact, you'll be sorry tomorrow no matter what. Good night."

To tell the truth, Ben slept pretty well, considering how life was dragging him by a stirrup through new and wild terrain.

 

V

The alarm had barely gone off before Ben heard Johnny groan, "I hate my life." Then Johnny was up on his feet and throwing on his clothes, taking only about a minute to get ready before charging out the door.

You could not say it was true dawn outside, but that hadn't stopped everyone except Miss Blake from assembling by the big outdoors trough-pretending-to-be-a-sink for a fast and cold morning scrub. Afterward, Ben drifted over to a structure that looked as familiar as any cookhouse he had seen on a ranch. Within, not to his surprise, an elderly fellow was frying steak, bacon, onions, and eggs. Miss Blake was already seated on a log bench outside the door, seeming altogether too cheerful for this time of the morning, eating with determined speed.

Ben sat down next to her. "I never did find out if there was anything I could do to help."

"There isn't. We bribe Cookie to take care of the crew's meal before he copes with the box lunches. You might want to get out of here soon, though. This is about the time when everyone starts going a little nuts. Uh-oh, I'm due in makeup. Take my plate in when you're done?"

"Sure."

She was off with a quick smile of thanks. Ben shook his head and smiled himself. He was learning that winning in Hollywood meant getting other folks to do things for you, whether by hook, crook, or, he supposed, sheer nastiness. He hadn't seen the last yet, but he would bet it was out there, what with all this coaxing going on. Wherever you went, some folks just had to choose the meaner way.

Ben didn't try to interrupt Johnny when he saw him stride by with some fellows trailing him, looking like a man with ten jobs to do. Instead, he drifted away along a track where hoof prints and droppings told him horses must have passed. After walking along a street of buildings that could have been from back in New Mexico-- if there had been any real structures behind their false fronts -- he wandered over a rise and down a dirt road to see a picket line of horses in front of him.

Even as arrived, an old truck chugged up from the opposite direction and stopped, followed by a couple of rattletrap automobiles that did the same. Their passengers promptly bailed out and headed for the picket line. When Ben got down to the line, he found he was surrounded by cowboys.

Ben showed his note to the wrangler, a young Mexican with a nice smile and a weak mustache, ignoring the sideways looks he was getting from the cowboys selecting horses. Then he stepped back and let them have first choice both from the picket and from the gear piled on tarps beneath a battered old tent. Since he had packed away his new suit this morning in favor of the step-heel boots, Levis, and checkered shirt he would wear on any riding day, he wasn't feeling much strain from waiting beneath their gazes.

At last, one fellow asked, "You up from the border country? Texas, maybe?"

He was likely basing his guess on Ben's boots and his Stetson, low and domed rather than high and creased as it would be if he came from sagebrush country in the northern plains.

"New Mexico, Lea County. My spread's the Allwell, and I'm Ben McClure."

There was a minute of evaluation even while the cowboys kept on checking backs and hooves, saddles and tack. Then an older hand, about as grizzled as they came, said, "I'm Clyde Miller. I rode for your pa one season, back around ought-eight. When I met you, you were knee-high to a gopher."

"Can't say as I remember you, but I'm surprised I was even that tall. Around then, all I was good for was fetching tools and clinging to my saddle like a burr."

There were a few chuckles, and a kind of general relaxation. The first fellow who had spoken asked Ben, "You riding in today's shoot at the old mine? Wondered who would take over for George after the spill he had."

"Nope. I'm visiting with my _amigo_ , Mr. Johnny Smith. He thought I might want to see a movie set after I got done seeing the ranch."

"Well, hell, don't fork that roan. She's mean as a rattlesnake. Take the paint. He's no damn good at a running fall, but he'll amble you around fine if all you want is a ride on a rocking chair."

Ben nodded and went to saddle the pinto. There was a good chance of his being the butt of some prank or other involving the horse's habits, but long experience had taught him cheerful endurance was much better than any hint of mistrust or complaining.

On the other hand, there was nothing in the cowboy code that said a man could not use his wits. Ben took his time checking the pinto, and when he finally had the saddle on the gelding, the other cowboys had ridden out in the opposite direction from Johnny's camp. The only fellows left were three wranglers, all Mexicans, from their looks. After tightening the cinch, Ben eyed them and chose the oldest fellow, who had the manners of a _vaquero_ and was watching the two younger wranglers tend to the picket rope with a critical gaze.

"Good morning, sir. Mind if I interrupt for a minute?"

Ben got another considering gaze in return. But he must have done something right, because he also got a reply. "Good morning. You need something?"

"I'm fresh to the Red Gulch string. Is there anything I should know about the pinto? Don't want to do any damage."

"Then you should avoid riding in front of cameras." At Ben's inquiring look, he waved a hand. "Ignore me. I heard them tell you to take out the pinto." The fellow snorted. "It is true that he is a good riding horse. But do not say," he leaned in close and lowered his voice, " _a viente_ while you are on him."

Ben tilted his head, curious. "All right, I won't."

The _vaquero_ seemed amused. "We tried training some horses to fall on various signals, rather than the usual way." At Ben's inquiring look, he said, "When they are shot in the movies, they have been dropped by a wire with its ends tied to hobble cuffs above the fetlocks. Such a loop was once very long, run as a single strand under the cinch and attached to a post from which the rider galloped away until the wire ran out, but that was not safe. Now the loop is short, with the ends run to the saddle horn and yanked by the rider so that there is time to free feet from the stirrups."

"That’s… still nothing I'd call safe."

"Horses die, yes, and riders can be hurt if they are unlucky. Our horses trained to fall were safer, but it took too long to teach them and they cost more to rent. Now we only keep one or two of them trained for the special shots." He shrugged. "Not that this one was ever any good. He had too much sense. He only falls after he is standing still. When signaled, he would stop and then fall over. I have never seen the like."

"I see." Ben felt his lips twitch. "Well, thankee for your help."

The _vaquero_ smiled. "You are welcome. Enjoy your ride." He went back to intimidating the younger wranglers.

This must have been Ben's lucky day. The pinto really was an easy mount and used to the terrain he was crossing. Ben explored the ranch, which took a while longer than he had expected. He found several more clusters of phony buildings, one crowded with a film crew. People dressed in old-time clothing were pouring off a bus as he rode up, so he set off south rather than get in their way.

In that direction, he noticed what looked to be mine buildings on one of the hillsides and veered away before any of the cowboys could spot him and try hollering " _a viente_." A bit farther along, he came to a large barn and corral next to what must be the big house, with a fenced lot full of cattle nearby.

Inquiring at the house, he found that Mr. Henley was in town having his broken leg looked over. Ben still got the invitation to supper he had expected, but for the next night rather than that evening. He refused the usual offer of food or drink from Henley's housekeeper and spent the next couple of hours exploring the ranch's back acres.

It turned out that the spicy-smelling brush on most of the hillsides was about as obnoxious and impenetrable a group of shrubs as he had ever thought to encounter, which was somehow reassuring. Land so rich and easy that it had no flaws would seem wrong to a rancher. Ben grinned at his own superstition, his amusement likely unseen except by the redtail drifting overhead.

Riding a loop through canyons and out along the roads to where he and Johnny had entered the ranch last night, Ben came back to the fake town that he had walked through in the morning. He had meant to arrive around lunchtime, but either he had not gauged right or lunch had been early. It would have been nice to ease along the edge of the set and get a gander at Tom before Tom spotted Ben. Instead, people in costumes were scattered around eating box lunches, and Tom was nowhere in sight.

Ben did see Johnny, though, sitting in a folding chair and surrounded by what must be his senior hands from the crew. Johnny waved a sandwich at them to emphasize some point he was making. He did not seem happy.

What he did seem was observant. Spotting Ben on the pinto, he plopped down the sandwich he had been eating onto the clipboard he held in his other hand, and passed across both to what looked to be his secretary. Then he stuck his forefingers into his mouth and whistled in the manner Ben had taught him years back, before rising to head in Ben's direction.

Dodging a couple of the folks who must be extras, he approached Ben on the proper side of the pinto and said, "Get down from that critter and talk to me for a minute."

"I'll have to walk him."

"Sure. Come on."

They strolled toward the outskirts of town. "Look," Johnny asked, "is Old Man Henley still down for the count?" He'd known without asking that Ben would have visited as soon as possible, as much for courtesy's as curiosity's sake. It was the cattlemen's way.

"He's off to the sawbones in town."

"Crap." Johnny eyed Ben. "Want an afternoon's work?"

"Depends on the work."

"Good answer. Due to a screw-up involving a scheduling debacle and a competing shoot from my very own studio -- thanks a lot, fellas -- somehow, I am stuck with a herd of cows and no riding extras to stampede them through my town. Which brings me to you."

"You are joking."

"No, I am not. I am looking at a shooting schedule with a hole burning through it. Worked as your own ramrod recently?"

"About ten days ago, when Soda Charlie was busy with a cattle tank. Can I guess where this is going?"

"Can you?"

"You want me to drive a bunch of cows of a breed I have never herded before with I do not know what hands, using a chancy horse, across strange terrain, on someone else's ranch, through a fake town. A fake town with folks and movie cameras in it. While you film."

"Working actors, not folks, and yes, I do."

"Well, hell." They studied each other again.

Ben wasn't sure what Johnny saw, but Ben was seeing someone both tense and alive, facing a problem of a sort he had faced before and expected to face again. The look suited him. Then Johnny opened his mouth to say with quiet intensity, "Do me this one little favor, and I will French your cock so thoroughly that you will see stars."

Now Ben was sure what Johnny saw, because Johnny gave him the sweet smile of a peddler who had spotted your twitch after you found what you desperately wanted among his goods.

Ben swallowed. "You don't have to do that. I'd have run your cattle for you anyways."

The smile disappeared from everything but Johnny's eyes. He said, still low and earnest, "And I'd have sucked your dick for you without a stampede. Since you want to be certain and sure, that is. This merely made it easier to offer. Deal?"

Without any instructions from Ben at all, his hand reached out to grip Johnny's. "Deal," Ben said. Then he frowned. "Is that mustard on your hand?"

Johnny freed his palm and examined it critically. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. Say, now that you're working for me, you want a box lunch before you fix my stampede? But you'll have to eat fast before you sort everything out. I don't want to lose the light."

"Might as well." Ben snorted. "I can eat while I listen to one of the fellows who does your camera work. I'm going to need some notion of just what tomfoolery you want, here."

"I'll introduce you to my unit man, Fred. He could explain sight lines to an ingénue, a kid star, and a chimpanzee, all at the same time. You can also tell him what wardrobe should expect." After a companionable shake of Ben's elbow, Johnny headed back toward the set, pretty obviously thinking that Ben would follow, complete with horse.

"I guess that was meant to be reassuring," Ben told the pinto, who rattled his bit with his tongue and looked bored.

 

VI

After a quick conference with Fred, Ben checked his cinch, got back on his horse, and then galloped toward the picket line. Sure enough, the _vaquero_ was still there, showing the wranglers some stunt with a _riata_ that he had retrieved from the heaps of equipment. When Ben rode up, the man started coiling rawhide as he moved toward the pinto.

Ben opened with, "I know Mr. Henley is still laid up, so I’m betting you have more choice about what you do today than you mostly do. You free for the next few hours?"

"It depends."

"Worked cattle recently?"

"They do not move themselves from place to place."

"Sorry." Ben reached up to touch the small poke-bag beneath his shirt that held his traveling cash. "Four bucks each if you and the boys help me stampede those cattle through the fake town over there for Mr. Smith to film."

"Five dollars, and we do not have to wear _sombreros_ , _serapes_ , mustaches, or pretend to speak with idiotic accents."

"Still may have to be the bad guys and wear something offish. Deal?"

"Yes." He turned and said to the younger wranglers in Spanish, "You, come with me. You, go get Luiz, send him to the cattle pen with three decent horses, and then return to watch the picket."

Interested, Ben asked him, "By the way, what's wrong with an accent?"

"A matter of principle. Besides, I am using my youngest boy, and his Spanish is a disgrace, so it would also be silly. Let's go."

The _vaquero_ , Santos, was more of a horse breaker than a cattleman, but he knew the terrain and the animals. Ben was used to dealing with all sorts of problems while herding. Between them, they managed to move out the cattle -- some sort of local shorthorns -- quickly.

Ben was still relieved when they were met below the peak of the small rise above the movie town by Fred, who was trailing a wardrobe gal carrying black Stetsons, red bandanas, and leather vests. It was quite the experience, taking turns to clamber down and have bandanas tied in the fool way that movie cowboys wore them while all the cattle milled around and lowed nervously.

"Okay," said Fred, who looked like his box lunch had given him indigestion. Or maybe it was the inquisitive cow he kept having to dodge. "Back 'em up a little. One of my men will stand below the ridge here and wave a flag when we want you to start moving. Keep them tight and going fast all the way down the street, just like I showed you. As for the riders, have them wave their hats and holler."

He eyed Santos and the others dubiously, and Ben stepped in with, "Everyone speaks English."

"Great. But don't use words, just whoop. We have a couple of guns for you. Shoot 'em into the air; they're loaded with blanks. Remember, you think you're spooking the town, not killing people. You don't know that the rancher's daughter is tied up in the middle of the street down there."

Ben gingerly accepted the pair of old Colts and held out one toward Santos, who took it smoothly before Luiz could finish his tentative move toward the gun.

If possible, Fred looked even more dyspeptic. "Do a good job, okay? We probably won't have time for a second take."

As Fred trotted off, still followed by the wardrobe gal, he didn't shake his head dubiously, but Ben could tell that took an effort.

Ben did not bother with an effort. He shook his head as he said, "I cannot believe that I am doing this."

Santos raised his eyebrows. "Five dollars is five dollars." A few days' pay for a ranch hand, was what he meant.

"You are right about that." Too bad it was actually Ben's money and not the movie company's.

After all the fuss about hurry, they had to wait another twenty minutes before they got their signal. At least they used the extra time for some serious jawing, and it turned out that the cattle were more acquainted with this sort of nonsense than Ben was. A couple of loud screeches and some fancy footwork from the horses was enough to get them going over the edge of the rise and pouring down into the town at a fine clip. It was more of a gallop than a true stampede, but that would have to be good enough for movie work.

Some small part of Ben's brain was appalled to see a few of the folks in costumes -- the extras -- screaming and scrambling to get out of the way. Actors, he reminded himself. The rest of him was too busy with pushing along the cattle to worry. One steer did veer away from the herd to parallel them along a building's porch, which would not do those boards any good, but Ben cut him back in with the rest at the next street intersection.

To his surprise, when he did so, the pinto reared up beneath him. He must have given some signal without knowing it. Ben managed to keep his seat and fire off a couple of the blanks, which discouraged any more of the cattle from taking a detour. And here came the rear of the so-called stampede. Ben and the pinto moved to hurry along a couple of cows who seemed to want to saunter, rather than thunder, down the rest of Main Street.

Only a minute or two had passed before they were out the other side of the fake town and trying to get all the cattle halted in one general location. A few more minutes of whistling and saddle work rounded them back up, and the herd's excitement started subsiding into milling and bawling, rather than lunges toward freedom.

"If you've got them in hand, I'll go see how the movie part went," Ben called out to Santos, who flourished his movie hat in reply. Ben's own hat was jammed down too tight for flourishing, which was probably why he hadn't lost it when the pinto reared.

Ben rode over to where Johnny had his little folding chair set up by all the cameras, lights, shiny panels, and such-like equipment. He was out of his chair, though, and punctuating talk with his hands when Ben arrived and reined the pinto to a standstill. Looking up and over, Johnny called out, "Not perfect, but it'll do. Your showing off with the horse and the gunfire was good. I will need you to get that one cow back here, so we can get a close-up of it charging along the porch."

"That one steer, not that one cow," Ben said, right as an almost-familiar voice hollered, "Ben McClure!"

Too bad the voice then kept going with, "What are you doing up on that paint? Isn't he the one with the _a viente_ trick?"

God damn Tom Walker, anyhow.

 

VII

The next few seconds were plenty hectic. Luckily, Ben's ears and feet had worked faster than his brain. Before the pinto had finished his strange, sideways steps and collapsed, Ben had kicked loose his boots from his stirrups and gotten his legs up, so the entire weight of the horse didn't come down on one of them. Then he twisted in the air to take the fall on his shoulders. Hitting, he rolled with his arms tight in to his chest. When he came to a halt, dusty, sore, and winded, at least he hadn't tangled with a camera or some fake building.

Although he wanted to lie still, Ben made himself sit up. Johnny was out of his chair and moving, but everyone else stood gaping except for the pinto, who heaved himself up and shook like a dog, puffing road dust every which way. That at least got the camera boys hustling to protect their lenses.

Ben breathed deep, trying to get the air back into his lungs as Johnny knelt by him and asked, "Any damage?"

Standing up slowly, Ben said, "Nope." His instinctive reply seemed to be true, too, since none of the pain promised much worse than bruising.

"I'll catch the horse," Johnny said, and went after the pinto with a skill Ben knew came from years of driving a peddler's wagon alongside his father. Ben was left to confront Tom.

He turned to see what he would see.

Memory had not fooled him. Now that he was grown, Tom Walker was still an amazingly good-looking cuss, if in a style that most men would forgive him. He had a broad and open face strengthened by a hatchet nose, straw-yellow hair with golden glints to it, and deep brown eyes. His handsome features perched atop a well-shaped body like a good set of blades sat on a nicely built windmill. Judging from his expression of earnest concern, one that had not a flicker of surprise or guilt to it, Tom's face continued to shout only those feelings he wanted announced. As Ben glared, Tom's expression shifted to amusement.

"Well, hell," Tom said. "Oil Well Ben. Still as wild and tough as ever."

Ben had never been wild. "Just plain Ben." He took the hand he was being offered.

"One face I never thought I'd see around Hollywood was yours." Tom had invited Ben to visit five times in five different letters. "If you aren't a sight for sore eyes." His smile was dazzling. Ben wanted to grit his teeth when he felt the odd little twist in his belly that meant Tom could still saunter right past Ben's guard.

"Ben, take your horse, would you? I'm supposed to be directing here," Johnny said.

Grateful for the interruption, Ben grabbed the reins and took the chance to examine his recent steed. No injuries, it seemed. He would have expected the pinto to be dazed, but the damn horse seemed smug, instead.

"I see you," Ben told the pinto. After checking the cinch, he swung back up into the saddle.

Tom stepped in to grasp the bridle. "How long are you in town?" he asked, right as Johnny called out, "Hey, what about my steer?"

"A while. I have to go fetch Johnny's steer. Excuse me." Ben resented himself for making excuses.

Tom nodded wisely. "Can't interrupt a shoot."

He strolled off to one side of the cameramen with the air of a fellow who meant to linger, but Ben heard Johnny say, "Tom, I need you over on the other set--" just before Ben rode off.

Turned out it was quick work to pick out a steer that might have been the same fellow and run him along the porch in front of the cameras. Then they herded the cattle back around town and Ben's crew got a shot or two of that.

By the time all that filming was done, even Ben could see the light was changing. Johnny sent Ben and Luiz to sit on their horses at the top of the rise while he filmed them from below in a way Ben guessed might make them seem menacing up on a screen in a movie palace. Afterward, Fred came up to cut them loose.

Still ignoring the Red Gulch hands, Fred told Ben, "We'll need all of you back tomorrow morning for a few close shots of you hanging around town, looking mean. Six-thirty call. And Johnny wants you right now, Mr. McClure. You think these Mex guys can put the cows back where they belong?"

Ben glanced over at Santos, whose eyes were sharing his opinion with the heavens even as he nodded yes. "Yep. Hold on, though."

He rode over and got out his grubstake bag. "Can you be here again in the morning, or is there other work to do?"

"There is work, but we are also supposed to be helpful to the film crews as part of our duties." Ben snorted, and Santos looked very grave as he added, "We will be extra helpful at the same fee."

"Three dollars. Not much danger standing around with a bunch of folks in costume."

"Three-fifty, and four if we must fall through any windows."

"Deal." Once more, he and Santos shook hands. When Santos let go, a trio of five-dollar bills stayed in his hand. After giving Ben all the costumery, he and his men herded off the cattle while Ben headed back to the fake town.

Tom and another actor in an old-fashioned black suit were loitering in the street alongside a bunch of extras. One of Johnny's film people trotted up to Ben as he swung down from the pinto, and said, "Go stand over there by the guy in the black hat. Look mean. Don't say anything while we're filming, and, for Christ's sake, don't try to act."

"Okay," Ben said. For lack of any better alternative, he tied the pinto, now loaded with hats and vests, to a hitching rail in front of one of the buildings. Then he did as he had been told.

How a fellow was supposed to act, given that he'd have only five or ten lines of talking to work with before the camera stopped shooting, was beyond Ben's comprehension. He guessed that skill was what made Tom a moving picture star. At least Ben didn't foul up anything during the short scene and get snapped at, the way one of the extras did. The look Ben had donned once his good cheer no longer fooled anyone during oil negotiations turned out to have more uses today than he would have guessed back then.

When they were all dismissed, Tom came over to Ben to say, "I'm heading home after this. Dinner tomorrow?"

"I'll be having supper with Mr. Henley, the fellow who owns this spread."

"How about Saturday?"

"I'll be back in Hollywood on Saturday."

"Good." Tom slapped his arm. "My place, seven o'clock." After another dazzling smile, he strolled away. A young woman holding a stenography pad appeared out of nowhere and started talking to him about something to do with scripts. Tom gave her all his attention.

Ben blinked after him and then scowled.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't." That was Johnny appearing at his elbow, kind of a surprise with everyone bustling around the way they were.

"I told you there was nothing to worry about. Still isn't."

"Yeah, I can see that. I'm heading over to the hotel to talk with my scriptwriter. You want to come along and get some grub?"

"I guess."

"Great. Meet me at the truck in an hour and a half." Then Johnny was gone, too, hollering for some Joe whose family name seemed to be, "--you S.O.B."

With a smile, Ben shook his head, and went to find the wardrobe lady to give her back her handkerchiefs, leather vests, and that too-tight Stetson before he returned the pinto to the picket line.

A few of the cowboys from that morning were also there, returning horses. Old Clyde took one look at how Ben was moving and hooted with laughter. "I guess you found out about that paint."

"I did. Still a nice riding horse."

"That he is. How'd you like the ranch?"

"Good cattle country."

"Sure is, if'n a fellow don't mind that damn brush, about a million ticks, and a fire or drought every other year. They get any film of you today?"

"Yep."

"Thought so. Ain't a movie man out there, even the upright ones, who can resist a free fall for the camera. That would've cost him two, three dollars if he'd asked you beforehand."

"I'll remember that."

"You do. Wouldn't want your pa thinking his boy grew up into a fool."

"Nope." Although his reaction to Tom struck Ben as more of a symptom of adult idiocy than choosing to be bilked. "Thankee."

"Welcome to Hollywood."

"Now, why do those words make me think this town is about to hide burrs in my boots?"

All of the cowboys chuckled. Clyde said, "Seein' as how you spotted that, you may last long enough to find out. See you around."

"I guess you might." Ben nodded to his wrangler and started the walk back to the building where he had left his suitcases.

He had time to knock some more dust off, wash up a little, and change into his walking shoes before Johnny arrived. A few stretches proved he hadn't taken much damage from the falls, other than a bruise or three.

Johnny looked him up and down critically, although there was nothing personal in his gaze. "No suit?"

"Do I need one?"

"Not really. Let's go before every steak in town gets eaten. You should bring your bags along. There are shower baths at the hotel, which might do you some good after that pinto's slapstick scene."

In the truck, Ben asked Johnny, "Will Tom stop by this evening before heading home?"

"Do you want him to?" Johnny didn't look away from the road.

"Not just now, I don't. My memory's good enough to tell when he's getting some kind of a notion. What about my pay?"

There was a short silence before Johnny said, "Oh, money. That comes from the pay clerk at the studios back in Hollywood. I'll give you a chit for her. Did you already take care of those other fellows?"

"Five dollars each."

"Well, you're only getting three-fifty each from us."

"That's fine. Since I collect for all four of us, that puts me back for the day by a dollar and ahead by some French cuisine to follow."

The truck swerved just a touch. Looking sideways, Ben caught the moment when Johnny got over his startle and started to laugh.

 

VIII

They parked by the town's one café. At Ben's look of inquiry, Johnny said, "They don't usually deliver, but they make an exception for us. A kid brings over our food to the hotel for a tip. It's a nice deal all around, especially for Tom and Evie."

"Miss Blake?"

"Yeah. Keeps them from being gawked at while they're eating. Most days, they drive back and forth to Hollywood, which ducks the whole problem. But they stay when it's a big day for stunting or they're tired. Anyhow, I thought we'd stop and place our order at the café rather than waiting for the kid to show up after we telephone from the front desk. Evie's braving the hotel tonight, and I already know what she wants."

Johnny ordered steaks and fries, succotash, and strawberry pie, for four, before continuing on to the hotel located in the same building as the town drugstore. There, he leaned on the front counter to chat with the clerk and pass across some bills before taking a key and heading upstairs, Ben still in tow. "He'll send up the kid. Meanwhile, you can leave your bags in my room. I'm above Main Street, but there's no help for it. The girls have the corner room, and anyone from the production staying at the hotel tries to rent the rooms around them to keep the nosies away."

He unlocked and opened one of the doors at the end of the corridor. Then he yanked a thumb toward the door on the other side, from behind which Ben could just make out the sounds of typing. "We'll eat dinner over there." Ben set down his suitcases just inside the door, and Johnny closed it again. "Even in a small-town hotel, that's okay if both girls are in and we keep the door cracked open."

"Who's this other gal you keep mentioning?"

"Meg, my scriptwriter. She's the one who really rents that room. Does last minute revisions in there and also doubles as chaperone when needed. Meg may be the one respectable person in this entire traveling circus." He knocked.

"I heard that," Miss Blake said, opening the door. Turning, she added over her shoulder, "Margaret, dear, he's slandering you."

"Then why don't you let him in, so he's not doing it in the corridor?" another female voice replied.

Miss Margaret proved to have the sort of long and pleasant features Ben matched up with schoolteachers. She did wear a fancier dress than he had seen on any of the ladies who had educated him back in Hobbs. Her manner was different, too. After looking up at Ben and Johnny as they entered, she smiled vaguely and returned her attention to pounding keys on the typewriter set up on a tiny table by the window.

Miss Blake, on the other hand, threw herself down onto the large brass bed on her belly, rested her chin on her laced-together fingers, and announced, "I could eat a cow, especially after fleeing before that stampede all morning."

"Cow is coming. Entertain Ben, will you, while I consult with the one person still working around here?"

Rolling over until she was sitting upright, Miss Blake patted the coverlet next to her. "Come and sit by me, Oil Well Ben."

"God da--" Ben managed to swallow the rest of his opinion of Tom Walker. Then, feeling hangdog at the near cuss around a lady, he did as she had asked.

Miss Blake raised her eyebrows. "You don't like your nickname?"

"I hadn't heard tell I had a nickname before I came to Hollywood. Call me Ben, if you please."

"Then you're calling me Evie."

"Okay, Evie."

She gave him the cat-like smile of a gal who had just arrived at some conclusion that pleased her. Ben eyed her warily, and her smile widened before she told him, "It's the way you said, 'Okay, Evie.' No hot-cha-cha, no sign you see an opening. That makes me feel secure." Her smile focused down toward the feline again as she reached out to flatten a palm on Ben's chest. "I really like men who make me feel secure."

"Evie." The voice was Johnny's. Ben looked up to see both Johnny and Miss Margaret glowering at Miss Blake with exasperation, cut by maybe two drops of affection. "Entertain, not flirt," Johnny said. "Don't confuse the greenhorn."

Miss Margaret settled for tsking before going back to her typing.

After rolling her eyes, Miss Blake told Ben, "There are days when I might as well be back in Ventura with my parents." All at once, her expression was one of awe-struck fascination about as real as a three-dollar bill. "I heard today's stampede went ever so well. _Do_ tell me about it."

Ben grinned at her. They talked cattle for a minute or two while Johnny and Miss Margaret sorted out something about scripts. From the bits and pieces Ben could overhear, he and the wranglers were getting wedged in as villainous rustlers.

All the jawing was interrupted by the arrival of the young fellow carting their dinners in a hamper. He peered around Johnny as he was tipped, and Miss Blake waggled her fingers at him. The youngster was blushing even as Johnny shut the door firmly in his face.

Miss Blake shook her head. "Poor kid. I have three older brothers who used to give me rope burns and Indian rubs, so I still can't get used to being the idol of boys five to fifteen."

"Don't think they lose interest at fifteen, somehow," Ben told her.

"They don't. Too bad. The kids are nicer. They only want my autograph." Getting up, she went over to the table and draped herself across Miss Margaret. "But Meg will rescue me from the locally ambitious. Won't you, darling?"

"Not without my dinner, I won't," Miss Margaret said, as she gently disentangled Miss Blake.

Once settled with some food, Miss Blake turned back into good company, as was Miss Margaret. They took turns deciding what Ben should see around Los Angeles all the way through pie and coffee.

"--Busch Gardens, in Pasadena. It has a wonderful old mill, and some lovely flowers, and the fairy walk--" Miss Blake said, and stopped dead. "The miniature buildings are cute," she finished, looking sheepish for some reason.

Johnny slapped his forehead. "On that reassuring finale to your travelogue, I'm taking Ben away from you. For once, I want to get a good night's sleep. And I won't if he's trying to sneak in later."

Miss Blake seemed to have recovered. "Ha. I bet you're hiding all the hooch in your room and don't want to share with the womenfolk."

"I bet I'm not. That druggist downstairs smirks at my Hollywood presence every time I so much as buy some cotton balls. You think I'm getting bootleg from him? Uh-uh. And I'm not keeping any alcohol around not bought from someone in with the local sheriff, either."

"Phooey to youee, then. I'll read a nice book until Meg is ready to play dominos with me."

"That would be some time in 1932," Miss Margaret observed from where she was stacking the dishes in their hamper.

"Oh, come on, Meg dear. Don't be a stick in the mud. I'll spot you ten points."

They got out the door and across the hall before Miss Blake could really settle in to her coaxing. Even as Johnny locked the door of his room behind them, Ben found the pull cords for the light and the ceiling fan, since Johnny did not seem inclined to open a window. Then he said, "I do get the feeling I'm still missing the fine points of conversations around here--"

"You could say that. Sit on the nearer bed, okay?"

Ben did and then blinked as his brain started catching up. "Kind of old-fashioned, these furnishings."

"This is what passes for class around here, if you can believe it. But I don't want to look a clean horse in the etcetera." Even as he spoke, Johnny knelt on the rag rug by the bed, right next to where Ben sat. "Okay. Earlier you mentioned pay." He put one hand on each of Ben's knees and paused, head tilted in inquiry.

"I--" Ben swallowed.

"Not to rush you, but I wouldn't wait for nerves to set in." Gently, Johnny tapped one of Ben's knees. "Not too late for no, but you'll probably have fun. Even if you aren't what you suspect you are."

"Hey, now. I know when you're trying to sell me something, Johnny Smith."

"Sure. Can you blame me? A chance this juicy doesn't come along often. In fact, a chance this juicy comes along rarely, if ever, given the local competition. Too bad I'm not more of an S.O.B. about using the casting couch."

Oddly, it was the ironic wistfulness in that last sentence that decided Ben, even if he could only guess at what Johnny was talking about. "Even so, you'd better not be trying to put one over on me." He spread his legs.

Johnny cupped Ben's groin through heavy denim fabric. The pressure of Johnny's hands was easy and experienced. "Nah. No Brooklyn Bridge." Ben shifted as his cock took a fancy to what was going on. "I can't promise results, but I've had sequels requested in the past." Johnny moved his hands to undo Ben's belt buckle. "Lie back, okay? That's simpler, when I get fancy, than you sitting. At least these beds don't creak, much."

"What about the coverlet?"

"Didn't I say something about not working up a case of nerves?" But Johnny sat down on the bed by Ben's feet and started removing his shoes. "Phew. I hope you realize I wouldn't do this for just anyone." Having gently placed both shoes on the floor, he tugged off a sock.

Propped up on his elbows, Ben wiggled his bare toes. "Now, don't turn chicken."

For a moment, they both stilled, caught by the same memory of the Walker barn. Johnny recovered first. "Not then. Not now." He squeezed the foot he held even as he tossed a sock over his shoulder with his free hand. "Let's see who's chicken. Ticklish?"

"Hell, no." Which was just as well, since Johnny was making fancy show of kissing Ben's foot. Ben didn't twitch, which took some effort, and laughed, which did not.

Johnny waggled his eyebrows, leered, and stripped off the other sock. Then he crawled up the bed. He stopped by Ben's open belt buckle and said, "Okay. Last call."

Ben tried out a town dance kind of smile. Then he let himself lounge back against one of the pillows. After a moment, he grabbed the other pillow and stuffed it behind himself. If what his body was telling him was any hint, he would want to see this.

Slowly, Johnny unbuttoned Ben's fly, taking more time over the job than Ben would have expected. After he worked each button free, he paused to stroke Ben's hardening cock through the fabric. "I believe we're rolling," he said, as the last button came free.

"I sure can tell you're a picture director sometimes."

"Oh, yeah?" Johnny scooped out Ben's cock from his combination bottoms before pausing. Johnny's hands, strong with whatever labor he still did, felt hot and maddening. "Then let me give you some background for this scene here. Don't just consider how much you like this. Ponder if you'd like doing it to another fella."

Well, hell. That choked noise had come from Ben.

Johnny shifted his attention back to what his hand was wrapped around. "Cripes, you look even better than I remember." He leaned in. His tongue darted out to flick across Ben's cock. The touch was a shock of wet heat. "You taste good, too. This is going to be fun." Slowly, his tongue slid along Ben's cock from base to tip. Then he looked up and raised his eyebrows.

"Johnny Smith, you dang son---"

"Okay, fine." Johnny's mouth shifted and he wasn't talking anymore.

The air around them may have been cool enough, what with the fan and all, but Ben was still sweating. He was also plenty aware of being sprawled out on a creaky bed in a small hotel room. But that did not quench the heat of what Johnny was doing. In fact, the rasp of fabric against fabric as Johnny moved over him and the small, smothered sounds he made as he serviced his mouthful turned Ben's flush into a burn.

His pulse pounded hard in his ears. He reached out blindly to clutch at the bars of the brass bedstead as Johnny wrapped one hand firmly around the base of Ben's cock before sliding mouth and tongue farther down than Ben would have ever thought they could go.

And, even as Johnny worked, his other hand wrestled with Levis and unmentionables, tugging them out of his way. Ben had to close his eyes against the sight of Johnny's lips stretched around his mouthful, but the image still seemed etched onto the dark behind Ben's lids like brilliance after a lightning flash.

Ben made a desperate noise, and the muffled sound around him in response was inquiring. Ever so slowly, Johnny slid his mouth off of Ben's cock. Ben's hips thrust, trying to follow, and he made the mistake of looking again. His freed cock was flushed dark, glistening with spit. Ben saw its slight shift as a throb of want went through him, which did not help anything at all.

"Can't not--" Ben said, before running short on words.

Johnny moved the hand that had been tugging at clothing to ruffle the hair at Ben's groin. Then he shifted it to do something purely wicked with a fingertip to the underside of Ben's cock. "Go ahead," he said. "That's the point, here." He swallowed Ben back down again.

When Johnny started stroking the skin behind Ben's balls, Ben was done. He fell back onto the pillows and worked at smothering his noise while he came. He could not say for certain that he saw stars, but there sure was a lot of gasping, twisting, and general distraction. Ben did not bend the bars of the brass bedstead, but it was a near thing.

"Gah," Johnny said afterward. Blearily, Ben looked over to see him working his mouth like a horse freed from an uncomfortable bit. "You were bigger than I thought you'd be. That's considered a compliment, by the way."

"Hell, I know that. Hobbs is in New Mexico, not on Mars."

Johnny rubbed Ben's thigh before sitting up and stretching. For all his easy talk, his eyes were languid and heavy. "Well, what did you think?"

"Seems like it's time for you to take your own shoes off." Before Johnny's faint frown could go anywhere, Ben added, "I don't want to be distracted while I do what I know how to do. I may not make you see stars, but I don't remember you complaining about my grip on your saddle horn, neither."

That got Ben both a smoldering look and a grin. It also got him quite the show as Johnny hopped around getting his shoes off before he turned and paused with his hands on his hips, the state of his trousers giving proof that he had enjoyed his recent activity. Ben appreciated the silent offer of one last chance to turn yellow, but he didn't need it.

Instead, Ben reached over to yank Johnny down into sitting on the bed. Then Ben hugged him hard across the shoulders with one arm. "Think you can manage some direction if I get brave and try the fancy?"

Johnny looked at him sideways, considering. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. I'll get my trousers and shorts out of the way, and let's see what you can do." His tone was casual, but he was not slow with his belt and zipper. "I have some hints if you do need them."

"Mr. Hollywood Director," Ben said, not minding that the words came out a little soft. And he truly did not mind the way Johnny twitched at the first touch of Ben's calloused and tentative fingers on the smooth and naked skin of Johnny's cock.

 

VIII

Although Ben could tell from Johnny's attitude that he would not mind talking about what had happened, Ben took the time to ponder, instead. These last two days had been as strange as if Ben had washed up on one of those South Seas islands he had considered visiting. They had been tiring, too, worse than real working days. Ben meant to spend some time after the lights went out considering all of what had happened and how he felt about it, but he slept as soon as his head hit his pillows the second time.

Once again, he was awoken by Johnny's alarm clock. Johnny's voice, thick and sleepy, asked the dark, "Why the hell did I not become a teamster? Why?"

The answer to that seemed pretty obvious to Ben, so he didn't bother adding his two cents.

The alarm had rung even earlier than it had yesterday, early enough that Ben was grateful for their prompt bedtime the previous night. They did not waste precious time on jawing, but they did have to jostle each other over the small sink while getting shaved. When their gazes met in the mirror, Johnny went still. He did not say anything, but he did raise his eyebrows in a question.

Ben dabbed at himself with the bristle brush he held. Then he said, "Pretty certain. Pretty sure." He grimaced as he tasted soapsuds.

Johnny's smile came and went like the sun behind scudding clouds. He nodded and returned to cleaning runaway soap off his own neck with a towel.

When they emerged from their room, Johnny rapped on the door across the corridor. It opened promptly to show a gap that framed one eye belonging to Miss Blake. "If you aren't coffee, I don't want you."

"Great. You're up. Can I dump my bag over here again? We're on our way."

"So be on your way some more before you wake Meg." Opening the door, Miss Blake took the suitcase. Then she firmly, but quietly, shut the door in their faces.

Johnny turned to Ben. "Now, that was a view."

"I guess. Kind of lacey, wasn't it?"

"Sure. Kind of lacey. Let's go finish making you into a villain."

"Thought we had the rest of my visit for that. But I could get a fancy vest for today, maybe with some violets or sweet peas on it to show the direction in which I'm drifting."

"Careful," Johnny said, as he poked a forefinger into Ben's chest. His eyes smiled, though.

They only stopped at the café long enough to each grab a Coca-Cola and another slice of pie, huckleberry this time. Meanwhile, back at the ranch -- Johnny had to tell Ben all about title cards to explain why he laughed the first time Ben said that -- those extras in costumes must have been hustled off the bus again. By the time Ben got his dang pinto off the picket and met up with Santos and his boys on the ridge, a crowd had already gathered in the phony town to be harangued by Fred.

There was no chance for socializing, although both Miss Blake and Tom gave Ben big smiles and waves when they spotted him. All that recognition earned him was a dose of the stink-eye from the nearest extras. Since Ben was not the least bit interested in their jobs, he felt free to ignore them. He had other eggs to fry.

The day gave him plenty of opportunities to catch up on the pondering he had meant to do last night, what with all the standing around waiting for the cameras and actors to be ready. When he mentioned the waiting, Santos said, "No, this is quick work. They are filming each scene once or maybe twice. Fancy directors with big crews keep going until they have exactly what they want. I don't think Mr. Smith has the money for that much filming, although his movies are still very good of their kind."

Ben glanced over in inquiry.

With a shrug, Santos said, "I go see them because I like to watch how our horses look."

That made sense. Ben returned to discussing the Red Gulch with him. Santos had plenty of questions, too, about ranching in southern New Mexico and the details of life on the Allwell. Ben wondered vaguely if he had some relatives around the area, maybe down by El Paso. He sure couldn't be thinking of moving back there, not after the last couple of years since the Crash.

In the end, Santos and the boys did have to get knocked around some, but Ben made sure they would be paid an extra fifty cents for the effort so that they would profit and he wouldn't be more out of pocket than he already was. They were all done soon after lunchtime, and Ben went along to help them catch up on their ranch work. He had not forgotten which end of a pitchfork did what in four days, let alone how to stretch wire.

That pinto really was a good cutting horse; too bad he thought he was so dang funny. Otherwise, Ben might have asked if the gelding was up for sale while Ben and Santos talked some more as they labored.

There was plenty of time for Ben to clean up afterward, as the sun set. He went back to the outdoor trough from his first morning on the Red Gulch to wash up before changing back into his suit for dinner.

Johnny arrived while Ben was still stripped to the waist, suspenders dangling as he splashed water on his face. "Busy afternoon?"

"Yep. Seemed only fair to help the hands with their chores since I lured them away in the first place."

"You'd think so." Johnny's tone was casual, but his eyes were hooded as he watched Ben scrub. He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. "If you want, I'll give you a ride to the big house and then wait for you to get done with your dinner. That'll give me time to pick up my suitcase from Meg and send her home, not to mention catch up on my own chores. You would not believe my paperwork."

"I would, indeed. And I appreciate your offer. Might be a while, though, since I don't know how long we'll take over supper, and I have to walk back from the big house."

"Hey. C'mon. You're my guest. Staying with me, right?"

Ben found he was smiling. "Yup."

"So, part of a host's duty is to get you safely back home. Also, you can keep me awake on the drive across the Valley again."

"Shouldn't be any problem." Deliberately, Ben straightened and ran both hands through his damp hair. Usually he was not one for showing off, but he found he was enjoying giving Johnny an eyeful. "I don't anticipate any problems keeping you awake at all. Not at all. One good punch in the arm, for example--"

"Gosh. He learns so fast." Johnny's words were sarcastic, but his gaze was heated. Then several fellows came by carrying some equipment that was rattling around, and he turned to holler, "Stop!" before hurrying over to give them directions that involved a lot of gesturing.

Left to himself, Ben whistled as he finished cleaning up.

True to his promise, Johnny took Ben over to the big house in the pickup, dropping him off by the front gate to the garden. After Ben got out, Johnny rolled down the window and asked, "Did you remember to wash behind your ears? What about the back of your neck?"

Ben's gesture while waving Johnny off was nothing a man could call polite. It was getting harder and harder to remember he had only met up again with Johnny two days ago. Seemed as if a fellow having his mouth around your cock could do that to you if you were inclined to like him anyhow.

Pondering the speedy nature of a man's below-the-belt affections kept Ben busy until he was shown into the house by the housekeeper and up to Mr. Henley's bedroom. Henley was seated in a chair by the window with his right leg, the one in a big plaster cast, propped up on an ottoman.

He waved a cane when Ben entered. "Sorry to be dragging you up here, Mr. McClure, but those damned sawbones tell me this cast can't be removed yet. I'm one step short of cutting it off myself. Hope you don't mind us having our supper at the table here?"

"Not at all, sir."

"Don't need to call me sir. I'm Jeb Henley."

Ben took the hand that was offered and shook. Mr. Henley's grip was still strong, but he didn't hold it for long. And Ben could not tell if he was in his sixties or seventies, not a good sign. "I'm Ben McClure. Feel free to call me Ben."

"Oil Well Ben, or so I hear."

Well, this time the sigh wasn't too hard to swallow. "Just Ben."

"Okay, just Ben, let's get us some grub." Henley grabbed a hand bell on the table and rang it with a great deal more vigor than Ben might have predicted. "Hope you like Mex food. Lupe's steaks and pork chops are good, but her Mexican chuck is as fine as frog hair. Also, I have learned that heat aids the digestion when I'm not moving around like I should."

"I know the food well. My pa hired Mexican and Spanish hands, including cooks. Tasty."

"Mexican hands, eh? Guess that's one way you managed to impress Santos." Henley's watery blue eyes were still keen. "I asked him about you. Heard from him I should talk to Clyde Miller during his lunch break today, which I did. But we can discuss that after supper."

Henley sure did know how to add a note of suspense to a meal. Still, if there was one thing Ben had learned over these past few years, it was cheerful patience with a fellow who was taking his time getting to his point.

He chewed his way through a good meal and a lot of talk about New Mexico, California, horses, cattle, and raising horses and cattle in California as opposed to New Mexico. As the talk went on, Ben began to get a hunch about what Henley might be after, but his notion seemed too wild to mention. Better to give Henley slack reins and wait to see where he wandered.

Henley put down his dessert fork and asked, "So, how many head are you running on the Allwell this year?"

"Not too many. To tell you the truth, I've dropped my numbers way down, meaning to give the land a rest. We were pushing pretty hard around the war, and the oil revenues handed me the chance to bring back my grass. Besides, I lost most of my younger hands to the oil boom, and thinning the herd lets me run the Allwell with nothing but older fellows who want to settle, while I take this chance to travel around some. Seems like I'll have a ranch left when I get back."

"Surprised you started your trip in Hollywood, of all the confounded balls of snakes."

"Johnny Smith's an old friend of mine."

The way Henley spoke, he had already heard. "An upright fellow for a moving picture man. Might even ride the river with him. Sent me over this pineapple we're eating--" he nodded down at their pineapple upside-down cake "--as part of a big fruit basket a while after I went and broke my leg like a fool. Better medicine than all of those damn sawbones are prescribing."

Getting sympathetic about the leg would be rude. "I know Tom Walker, too."

Henley just snorted before changing the subject. "Look here, Ben. I said I'd tell you why I asked around about you maybe two minutes after you started looking over my ranch. You ready to listen?"

"I will admit to being interested."

"Fine. Your friend Johnny Smith tell you how this place is owned?"

"Told me you have some shares out with Constitution Studios."

"I do. I do, indeed. Biggest mistake I ever made, but how the hell was I supposed to know I'd get hit by a goddamned Tin Lizzy after church one Sunday before I could earn back those shares?" His gaze was bleak. "Not healing real well."

A cattleman saying that meant the leg was not healing at all. Ben, his hunch firming up, nodded.

"Keeps me kind of tired, too. And now my daughter is pestering the daylights out of me. I'm glad she's strong willed like her mother was, but those sorts of women don't give up. Wants me staying with her husband and sons on their spread down by Julian, where she can keep an eye on me."

"Huh. So, you're thinking about selling up the rest of your ranch and business. What's the problem?"

Eyes narrowed, Henley studied Ben. "Heard you were sharp. Yes, there was a clause I, or that shyster I used to think was my lawyer, should have spotted before I signed. Now, I can't sell out to anyone who might have business conflicts with Constitution Studios. If you're not familiar with how things work around Hollywood, that includes pretty much anyone in the movie business, plus all my rival outfitters. Even the local ranchers are ruled out, since they mostly have had movies shot on their acres by other studios."

"Which leaves--?"

"Land speculators, and they've turned tail since the Crash. It just about sticks me with Constitution for a buyer. Morris Smith."

"That would be Johnny Smith's uncle?"

"You don't know the man?" Henley leaned forward a little, intent.

"Johnny's pa took photographs. Johnny grew up into a director, not a businessman. I guess he and his uncle don't discuss every little detail of Johnny's life, including his old friends."

Henley studied him, and Ben placidly picked up his fork to finish off his cake.

After a few more bites of his own cake, Henley resumed with, "I guess you want to hear the rest of this."

"I guess you're right."

"I am, but maybe not for the reasons you think. Morris Smith has made me three offers for the Red Gulch since I broke my leg. The one this last month was for enough to rise to the level of highway robbery. It was around then some fellows from another movie company took a look-see at my land, asking questions. So, I had a couple of the old timers who work as riding extras up to dinner. They hear things around Hollywood."

Henley leaned back in his chair. "I'll tell you what. I even made one of those damned toll calls on the telephone to a fellow I knew back in Lubbock, this afternoon. Everyone I talk to says you are a true cattleman, just like your pa, except with more money than he had. Let me ask you one question, and I'll give you a rumor in exchange to take back to your amigo."

Soda Charlie claimed that you had to know when to grab for luck's mane because her tail was awfully thin. Ben decided to bet. "It's a deal."

"All right, then. There's some talk that Morris Smith wants to sell Constitution to a big studio in exchange for a piece of their pie. The men who were asking questions around here came from Everest."

That name meant nothing to Ben, but Johnny might care. "Thankee. Ask your question."

Instead, Henley said, "All this Hollywood dealing means double and triple crosses, and I'm getting past caring to watch for rustlers and horse thieves. But if you can face down Texas oilmen, then I guess I'll take the risk that Morris Smith might be pulling a fast one with you."

Ben's nod was amiable, but he made sure his voice was cool when he said, "If you're asking whether or not I'd like to buy out your share in the Red Gulch, I'd have to see your books before we could even shake hands on an option to buy. Also, I'm interested in learning how your water and grazing rights stand."

Henley's smile was fiery. "Well, now. What a coincidence. I just happened to have the ledgers for the last few years stacked up in my office downstairs. Should I ring to have them brought up alongside some coffee?"

"Sounds like a fine notion to me."

 

IX

On some other evening, Ben might have felt guilty for keeping Johnny waiting as long as he had. As it was, Ben walked into the equipment shed, closed the door, took off his Stetson, and asked, "You know any lawyers who do land work around here?"

Johnny looked up from the piles of paperwork on his little camp table and said, "There's the fella who takes care of the title and taxes on the acres I own down in the Valley."

You could get awfully fond of Johnny's sense for what should come first. "Somewhere around San Fernando?"

"Yeah, I did give myself away, didn't I? Maybe someday they'll make me rich. Right now, my idea of an investment is only costing me money, but I'm not selling during a slump. What happened at dinner?"

"I found you a rumor. Did you hear your uncle might be the one selling up?"

Johnny frowned and put down his pen next to the Coleman lantern. "He's always supposed to be selling. When he's not supposed to be buying."

"Well, he's trying pretty hard to buy the rest of the Red Gulch. And fellows from some studio called Everest have been slinking around the ranch, too, but they never mentioned money after all their poking and prying. Put the pieces together."

"Okay. Fine. I guess I see why dinner took you so long."

"Not long enough. I'll need another pass through the ranch's books with a bookkeeper and a lawyer, but that can wait for Monday or Tuesday. I still mean to have me some vacation."

"Son of a bitch." There was nothing personal about the way Johnny said the words, but he was still up and out of his chair. "You're thinking about buying the Red Gulch."

"Maybe. Never been one to pass a dealt card back across the table without taking a good look at it first."

"Cripes, you move fast."

"I do." Spurred by an impulse he did not understand, Ben took two strides forward, grabbed Johnny by the shoulders, and kissed him. He expected the stillness of surprise, but he didn't expect the reaction time of a rattlesnake.

Next time Ben could think, after all the messy and urgent lip work, he was being pressed back against a wooden wall as Johnny asked hoarsely, "You bolt the door?"

Heated as he was, Ben couldn't manage an explanation about wanting privacy to talk money, so he stuck to nodding.

"Good." Johnny was down on his knees and working on Ben's fly buttons almost before the single word was said. The Frenching that followed was fast and wild, nothing like last night's. Ben did not care, and sure as hell couldn't imagine complaining once Johnny had fumbled himself out and started stroking his own cock even as he used his mouth on Ben's.

All this could not last long before matters came to a sloppy finish. A minute or two later, Ben almost knocked himself senseless when his head went back hard against the plank wall. But Johnny didn't miss a pull, so Ben ignored the knock and stuck to groaning his reaction as he spent.

Johnny still knelt before Ben, panting. Ben was the one who managed to talk first. "This was _loco_. Sorry. I mean--"

"I get you." Johnny ran a tongue along his lower lip, and Ben really wanted to kiss him again. "Maybe a little too improvised, yeah. I think I bruised my knee. And good thing you cowboys run to hard heads." He got up awkwardly, his tackle still out. There were spatters of his spend on his shirt. All at once, Ben couldn't bear the yearning anymore and hauled Johnny in for another deep kiss. He could taste himself in Johnny's mouth, which made him shudder.

When they pulled apart a second time, Johnny looked as flummoxed as Ben felt. Ben thought he had better be the one to speak first this time, too. "It's not that I'm mooning over you or anything namby-pamby like that. Hell, we only met up again three days ago."

Johnny shook his head as if coming up from under water. "Sure. Although if anything could make me fall for you a little, those words of wisdom--" He responded to Ben's glare with an upraised hand. "Kidding, kidding. Your fault, though. First you bring me news to make me think, and then you do what leaves me incapable of thinking with my brain."

Ben kept glaring.

"And, speaking of thinking with other than the brain, who is having dinner with Tom Walker tomorrow, anyhow?" His gaze dropped. "Cripes. Put that away, would you, before I forget we're no longer fourteen. Again."

Those words shifted Ben's irritation into sheepishness. He wiped up and tucked himself away. Johnny did the same while muttering about his shirt. Then he told Ben, "You owe me, Bub. I may now have to spend Saturday working the telephone about Uncle Morrie's latest scheme, but unless you're planning on either being up late with Tom on Saturday night or attending church on Sunday morning, we're spending all day Sunday having a serious talk about certain options, up to and including sodomy."

"Owe you? You already got free news."

"Sure, and you're getting a free native guide while you either work out your daze over Tom or fight off your rivals for the exquisite hand of the Red Gulch Ranch. Maybe both. I think you're getting the better bargain, here."

This time, they both started by glaring, but Ben could tell when that slid sideways into something more complicated.

Johnny could, too.

Without a word, they looked away from each other and started packing up for the trip down south to Hollywood.

Good thing it was Friday night and the town café stayed open late, because Johnny insisted on more pie after he picked up his suitcase and spoke with Miss Margaret. That meant Ben had to drive the truck, and Johnny had to suck his fingers loudly when he was done eating sticky pecans, which was annoying.

"You trying to eat that pie or pitch woo to your chuck?"

"Pitch woo? Chuck? We have to work on your vocabulary. Also, your sanity. Why the hell are you thinking about buying another ranch out here after only two days -- three days -- in the Southland?"

"I don't need fancy words to jaw about pie. And looking over that movie ranch is nothing but me being done."

"Sure. That's clear. Except for needing about a thousand fancy words of explanation."

"Come on, Johnny. You never had that day when you woke up, looked around, and realized you were done with something? A job, a hobby, a place you'd been staying? Maybe a marriage, out here in Hollywood. Nothing big occurred, you weren't hit by lightning, you just all of a sudden knew you were done. Well, that happened to me the day I left Hobbs. I'm done with being their Ben McClure."

Even in the darkness of the truck cab, Ben had good enough side vision to see when Johnny stared pointedly at Ben's Stetson.

"Oh, I'm not done with ranching or even working as my own hand from time to time. I'm finished with being a respectable, hardscrabble rancher out in the _llano_ , is all. No more sitting through church socials and tent revivals, no more politics with the Ranchers' Association, no more wisecracks about the colors of the hands I hire, no more watching them all watch for me to get married. Going to do something else now, even if that something is only a different way of running cattle. Hell, maybe ranching out in California will make me into a gay buckaroo, just like in the movies."

That was when Johnny snickered, which veered the conversation until he could explain. Afterward, Ben asked him, pretty mildly he thought, "Well, what other words do I need to skip if I'm trying not to make puns when I don't mean to?"

"There's a bunch of them. Floral words, you know about. Lavender. Sweet Pea. I notice you've also learned some of the women's names. Nancy. Mary. But we also use theater slang, along with musical terms and all sorts of other stuff."

"Guess I better skip past being a singing cowboy, then." This time they both started snickering.

When they settled some, Johnny said, "Okay, fine. I still think you're galloping across a prairie dog colony, but what do I know? At least you're not slashing your throat or crawling into a bottle now that you're certain and sure."

"That there's another good reason to gallop, come to think on it. I learned years ago about working too hard to brood like a fool over what's not changing anyhow."

"Got it. And clever."

"I guess you'd know all about that, Mr. Must Do Everything B-Movie Director."

"Huh." Johnny fell silent for a good, long while. As they went through the tunnel north of San Fernando, he suddenly asked, "Anything I can do to help you?"

"Same thing you did back in Hobbs and at the hotel last night. Keep talking, is all, while you ease me past the nervy bit. Keep me busy."

"Until you're used to being a grown-up homosexual. That, I can do. And damn well enjoy doing it. Two and a half days or not, turns out I still like you." They emerged into the moonlight. "Okay, let me tell you what I know about the business end of making Westerns. Stop me when you have questions."

Ben did, and the jawing lasted them all the way back to Hollywood. He didn't have to punch Johnny in the arm even once.

Turned out, Johnny owned a small house, one of a cluster of houses around a strip of garden that he called a bungalow court. After they parked the pickup in one of the corner garages, they lugged their suitcases along the central sidewalk and then up the steps of Johnny's porch before he let them into his front room.

Johnny turned from locking the front door. "Over there, that's my second bedroom. I mostly use it as a study, but I keep a bed in there, just in case."

"Well, that makes me feel better. The way you were talking yesterday, a fellow might think you were about to pine away from lack of company."

"Nope. Not really." Johnny waggled his eyebrows. "Mind you, some company is better than others."

"I sure hope you're cutting me into the better herd," Ben said, dropping his suitcases where he had been told. The spare bed had bound stacks of paper scattered all across the Mexican blanket serving as its coverlet. They were scripts for moving pictures, Ben realized, as he started shifting them to the desk.

"You're in my spare bedroom, aren't you?" Johnny called back from another room. "Believe you me, most fellas don't get anywhere near that." Having finished disposing of his own suitcase, he came to lean on Ben's doorjamb. "This okay?"

"Fine as gravy." Ben straightened up and looked around. It was a pleasant, if tiny, room, crowded with the desk, the bed with its Mexican coverlet, and some well-filled bookshelves. The Navajo rug on the floor and the western landscape hung over the bed also hinted that Johnny hadn't forgotten where he'd grown up.

"Yeah. Good." Johnny straightened.

Ben was surprised to find, as he looked at Johnny, that a low heat was stirring in his belly. He wouldn't mind trying to go again, even as tired as he was.

Seemed like Johnny felt the urge, too. "Uh, good night," he said, and backed up pretty fast.

"Which room's the bathroom?" Ben called after him.

"Door to the left." There was a pause, and then, "Sleep. I need sleep and not rushing… things. New things that haven't been discussed."

His lips twitching, Ben raised his voice to say, "I hear you, Johnny Smith. Go to bed."

"Going." There was another pause. "I'm glad you're here. Good night."

Ben heard what must be the door to Johnny's bedroom shut firmly. Looking around the small room, he said quietly, "Seems like I'm glad I'm here, too." Then he sat down on the bed to take off his walking shoes.

 

X

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, and Johnny cooked steak and eggs for breakfast. "I don't keep ham or bacon around. Sorry," he said, carrying the plates to the table.

"Guess I'll live." Ben said, digging in. He scrubbed the dishes afterward as Johnny arranged all of the papers and ledgers from last night into different stacks on the table and muttered to himself.

Looking up from his work, Johnny said, "Wish I could play hooky to show you around, but I have to drop off this mess at the studio offices and then chase down the rumor that you brought me. You going to be okay? The neighborhood's nice for walking."

"I'll be fine. Haven't really taken a day to slow down yet. Hope you don't mind my raiding your bookcases."

"Go nuts. There's also a grocery down the block if you don't like what's in the icebox."

The contents of the icebox proved to be fine, and Ben spent a pleasant late morning and early afternoon spread out on Johnny's couch in his sunny front room, reading something called _The Maltese Falcon_ by a Mr. Dashiell Hammett. He suspected the plot had about as much to do with real detection as the works of Zane Grey had to do with real life in the West, but the story was an entertaining read, nonetheless. Ben was just thinking about choosing another book from the cases in the guest bedroom when the telephone rang.

Most times, Ben would have let it jangle, but he figured it might be Johnny calling. He gingerly picked up the receiver from its hook and asked, "Hello?"

There was a brief silence on the other end before some fellow said, "Who is this?"

"Well, now, I'm sure it's not Johnny Smith, although this is his telephone number. Who is this?"

"Morris Smith." Seemed like the name was supposed to get some sort of reaction that it did not, because the voice continued, "Johnny's uncle. Listen, Mr. Whoever-this-is, you tell Johnny I called and am looking for him. Write it down."

Ben took the receiver away from his ear, studied it thoughtfully for a second, and then put it back before saying into the mouthpiece, "I guess I can just about manage that, sir."

There was a pause. "A comedian." Another pause. "Do. Manage." Then Morris Smith hung up.

Ben did the same. Then he went and pulled down a book called _Magnificent Obsession_ from the bookcase, but had trouble settling to his reading.

About half past two, Johnny came back from his studio, just about bouncing on his toes as he entered the house. "Hey. Fella behind the book. You have a nice afternoon?"

"Yup. Except when your uncle called." It was a touch mournful watching Johnny's pleasure die down. The change was subtle -- he went back on his heels and his eyes narrowed a little -- but it was there. "Mr. Smith said to tell you he called and was looking for you."

"Oh. Was he."

"He didn't seem real pleased when I answered the phone."

Johnny's only reply to that was a slight flare of his nostrils. He picked up a chair, went over to the little table with the telephone on it, put down the chair, and sat on it. Then he started dialing numbers.

After the third call that seemed to have ended in some variation on "he's not here," given Johnny's end of the conversations, Ben stopped pretending to read and started watching Johnny. Maybe sensing Ben's gaze on him, Johnny, who seemed to be waiting for another secretary to get back on the line, said, "It's his way of telling me he's upset."

Ben just snorted. The cowboy code had its problems, but it did prevent this sort of game.

Johnny raised his eyebrows even as he said into the telephone, "Uh-huh. Sure. I see. Thanks, then. Goodbye." Hanging up, he waited for a few seconds before picking up the receiver and starting to dial again.

Someone knocked on the door. Johnny, who had a good view from where he was sitting, hung up. Then he waved down Ben, who had been about to sit up, before going to open the door.

No real surprise that it was Mr. Morris Smith. Hoping he was reading Johnny's signals right, Ben crossed his stocking-clad feet on the arm of the couch and raised his book in front of his face.

You could hear Mr. Smith stomp into the room. "Johnny. Did that clown who answered your phone write down--" There was a pause. "Who is that?"

"Don't mind him. You were saying?"

There was another, longer pause. Then, his words reluctant, Mr. Smith said, "I'm hearing you've been calling around town, asking about me and the Red Gulch Ranch. Didn't I teach you anything about discretion?"

"Not really. Just business and movies. Are you selling out to Everest?"

"If I was doing such a crazy thing, do you think I would tell you that with whoever this character is parked on your couch? What is he, one of your riding extras?"

"You might as well tell me now. And, no, he is not. He's probably the new owner of the Red Gulch Ranch."

To be fair, Mr. Smith didn't react loudly enough for Ben to hear. Only his imagination added some sputtering.

Johnny kept talking. "Uncle Morrie, I've warned you before about being rude to strangers on the phone." He must know his uncle pretty well to guess how his conversation with Ben had gone without asking. "There went your chance to try oiling him up."

Enough of this. Ben lowered the book and sat up. "Wouldn't have worked anyhow. I own enough oil of my own. Mr. Smith, I'm Ben McClure."

That was when Morris Smith showed why he was a mogul, even if a cut-rate one. He examined Ben, his face completely still. His dark eyes and features were a lot like Johnny's and his pa's, but with an extra layer of prosperity wrapped around them. All of a sudden, he snapped his fingers and his expression filled with irritated recognition. "He talked about you. You're from that place out in New Mexico where--" his dark eyes flicked to Johnny and away, "--my nephew spent a couple of months before he came to live with me."

"Yes, sir." Ben added the "sir" because Mr. Smith had tried to avoid reminding Johnny of his pa's death.

Mr. Smith narrowed his eyes. Then he whirled to his nephew. "Did you plan this with him?"

Johnny shrugged. "Nah."

Mr. Smith turned back to Ben. "Did he plan this with you?"

"Nope. Pure coincidence. I finally came to visit Johnny, he took me to work, and I hit it off with Mr. Jeb Henley right when I had some money in my pockets. Pretty predictable, but lucky timing. Or unlucky, depending."

To Ben's surprise, Mr. Smith raised his hands toward the ceiling before telling it, "Funny. Really very funny. So, crap on all this humorous coincidence shit." He continued on for a while in that vein. His language was familiar from the Allwell, although Ben was not used to seeing the upper air addressed in such terms. But it did not escape him that Johnny relaxed even before his uncle looked down, spread his arms wide, and said to Ben, "Now I have to fold you into negotiations. It's a judgment."

"I don't think it's a judgment," Johnny observed, his tone back to normal. He was forward on his toes again, too. "However. Just in case. Do you want some coffee?"

"Don't tell me what's not a judgment, and you can bet your ass I do." Mr. Smith stomped over to the couch. "Shove over. I'm sitting down."

Ben blinked and then scooted over.

He soon discovered where Johnny had learned to holler from room to room. Even while Johnny was reheating coffee, his uncle spread out across his share of the couch and said, voice raised, "At last, I got a good deal from that bastard Weinstein."

"That's what you think now," Johnny retorted, rattling around in the kitchen.

"Think now, think later, you'll see." Mr. Smith launched off into a summary of numbers and legalities, only half of which Ben could follow. This went on until Johnny came back into the front room with a cup of coffee, one his uncle took and then regarded with suspicion. "Is this from your breakfast?"

"No, Ben's lunch, I think."

"Ugh," Mr. Smith said, and drained the coffee with evident relish.

Johnny sat down in the chair by the telephone. "So, what happens to me?"

"Oh, you." Mr. Smith handed his empty cup to Ben. "You should be grateful. Since somebody taught you about bringing in a project under budget--"

"That would be Papa," Johnny put in.

"--your contract will be picked up with a renegotiation of terms. At least you have a decent agent this time around. You do still have the same agency?"

"Yes, Uncle Morrie."

"Good. Maybe you can do something with fewer horses for a change."

"I like horses. What about Ben?"

Mr. Smith turned and surveyed Ben at pointblank range. Ben was having trouble hiding his amusement. Voice suspicious, Mr. Smith asked, "I don't know, what about Ben?"

Johnny slapped his palm to his forehead. "He has to be folded into negotiations?"

With a shrug, Mr. Smith said, "More work, more work. Why did I expect anything else?"

Ben thought it was about time to put in, "Seems as if you're taking me awfully easy, talking about escape clauses and percentage points, and all."

Mr. Smith rolled his eyes. "Eh, I should have known. Whatever his other idiocies, this would-be D.W. Griffith has a genius with his friends." Was there the slightest of pauses before the word friends? "I thought that fella Tom Walker would be nothing but a pain in the ass, but he's made a lot of money for a bunch of folks, including me. Little Miss Blake is turning into a pocket gold mine, too."

Getting up, he told Johnny, "You. Stop making stupid telephone calls." Then he stomped over to the front door before turning back toward the couch and saying to Ben, "You. We'll talk, soon." He went out, shutting the door behind him in something just short of a slam.

Ben looked down at the empty coffee cup in his hand and said, "I think I need a lawyer. Another lawyer. Another different kind of lawyer."

"Yeah," Johnny said. "Yeah, you probably do. Although that went way better than it could have."

There was a pause before Ben said, "So you got Tom started in this town."

"I got him a job stunting when his family moved out here, sure. Even a green cameraman can do that. He did most of the rest on his own." Something about the last sentence sounded a touch bitter.

Seemed as if there was a lot of history Johnny was skipping, but that wasn't Ben's business. He was surprised to discover he would even want it to be his business. Hollywood just loved to keep Ben riding at a gallop.

Coming over, Johnny took the empty coffee cup and set it down on _The Maltese Falcon_. "Well, there goes the rest of my afternoon. You heading back to your book?'

Ben raised his eyebrows. "You have a better idea?"

"Sure. I have an idea. You can tell me if you think it's better."

"I guess. Although, if it's the kind of idea I'm thinking about, and I was you? I'd lock that dang front door first."

With a grin, Johnny did.

 

XI

"How do I look?" Ben asked Johnny that evening. He had hung up his fancy suit in the bathroom as he showered, so he hoped its wrinkles were not too obvious.

Johnny eyed him critically. "We have got to get you a better suit. Still, to my shock, you look okay in that. Good enough for Tom." He reached over and did something to adjust Ben's tie. "That'll have to do."

"Should have borrowed your hair pomade."

"No, you shouldn't have. You're fine."

"Did you call me a cab?" Ben had faintly heard Johnny talking on the telephone through the sounds of the shower.

"Hah. No. Those were about other business. You're taking the truck." Johnny pulled the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Ben.

"Thanks," Ben said. He found he wanted to blurt out a whole bunch more words, all sorts of explanations about why he was going over to have dinner with Tom and what that did and did not mean, but a man should herd his own doubts. Instead, he cleared his throat and picked up his Stetson from the couch. "All right, then."

"Get going," Johnny said, not unkindly. "There are maps of Southern California under the seat on the driver's side if you need them."

Ben did not need them after he found Beverly Boulevard again, except a little right at the end. This time, not only was the gate to Tom's spread wide open, but also there were no other cars on the driveway when Ben parked the pickup in front of the big entrance doors.

As soon as he had gone through those phony doors and into that fake hall with its grand staircase, Ben suspected he had made a mistake. Sure enough, when Tom came out to meet him, he was wearing a deep blue shirt and pair of tailored trousers that made him look like about a million bucks and change. His smile had to be worth another thousand dollars or so. "Ben. Good to see you again."

"Tom. Didn't notice your butler this evening." Or that sour-faced maid, neither.

"Inez is out and our staff has the evening off. But don't worry, Cook left something for us to eat right before she left just now." Tom slung a friendly arm around Ben's shoulders and led him deeper into the house, past the staircase, across a grand living room full of tapestry furniture, and into a small study. "I like to dine simply every so often, without all the fuss of eating out and being waited on."

The table that awaited them, with its candles, fancy tablecloth, and plates under shiny silver domes, must have needed a great deal more fussing than the blue-plate special at a local diner would have. Ben didn't say so. He was too busy getting the table between them.

"And what's for dinner?" Tom asked, after sitting down. He lifted one of the domes. "Chicken. I hope you like chicken."

Someone had gone after that bird and its sidekick of cowering vegetables with the world's fanciest sauce before trapping it under metal. "Chicken is fine." Ben uncovered his own plate. "Well, now. Tell me. How'd you get to be a big star in Hollywood?"

Ben had asked the right question. Tom might be more coaxing than any five pretty misses at their first dance put together, but he was also a big fan of his own work. Given how smooth Tom still was, Ben might not have noticed that he was being charmed if Tom had not stuck to a single subject for a good, long time. But all his talking gave Ben a chance to note the little details that were cut out or galloped over. In a place like Hollywood, nobody could be as purely lucky as Tom was claiming, modestly or not.

By the time the topic turned toward Ben, he was prepared. He still felt Tom's charm, and he sure as hell felt that raw physical attraction, but now Ben's mind was braced and his body a little too tuckered to be as interested as he would be usually. Ben started at the realization that Johnny must have figured this would be the result when they lurched into his bedroom that afternoon, when they both stripped naked, when they fell into the sheets of the unmade bed together, rutting with cock against cock until they came.

"Now, there's an interesting expression," Tom said.

"That's me being rude by drifting off during as fine a meal and as accomplished a conversation as I can remember. This dessert, here, was real tasty."

"I'll tell Cook you like her Peach Melba even after it's half melted." Ben wondered what Cook's real name was. "Shall we move into the living room?" Tom got up and, reluctantly, Ben followed.

Ben sat in an armchair while Tom got them both drinks. The bootleg liquor proved to be stored inside an enormous, old-fashioned globe of the world. After pouring Ben a bourbon and branch, Tom handed it over before settling into another of the tapestry armchairs. There, he sipped his own scotch and said, "So. You've told me everything but why you came out to Hollywood."

"Wasn't altogether sure of my reasons, when I left. Wanted to see you, of course."

Tom acknowledged this with a two-finger salute employing the hand that held his drink.

"Also thought I'd learn what ranching was like in California."

"I wondered if Johnny had put you on the scent of our movie ranch, given that his uncle is said to be interested in selling the place. You'd be a good cat's-paw for an ambitious businessman."

"He didn't. Didn't know a thing about movie ranches before I visited the Red Gulch." Since Ben lied poorly, the truth would have to do. "Nice spread, though. I'm glad I visited. But now I'm looking forward to a town bigger than Hobbs."

The laugh he got in return was wry and likely uncalculated. "That, I understand without explanation."

Ben smiled in spite of himself. "Don't know how long I'll be around. A while, I guess."

"Then you'll have to come and visit me again. I may not have missed Hobbs, but I did miss you." Tom's gaze was direct and unmistakable in its offer. He put down his Scotch on the mahogany table in front of him before leaning back in a way that was also an offer. That slow smile of his should have been outlawed.

Here was what Ben had wanted all those years ago, what he thought he had been working toward back in the Walker's dusty and dimly-lit barn. Here was what Ben had believed he still wanted for way too many years after Tom had left Lea County without a backward glance. But Ben was thirty-one now and freshly reminded that he had a lot of choices these days. He no longer had to follow the Judas steer and be lured into the stockyard chute by the biggest, handsomest fellow who owned a set of horns and seemed to know what he was doing.

Still, Ben was curious. "I haven't seen that smile in years."

"You haven't been around in years."

"Thought you were married."

The smile now mixed a little amusement with kindness toward the greenhorn. "This is Hollywood."

"I guess it is."

"You think my wife doesn't know?"

If Ben's first visit was any indication, she dang well did. Ben shrugged.

"It isn't as if this is anything that really counts. No more than it did back in Hobbs. Only amusement. Harmless fun."

Why the hell half-truths like that should sound so much more sensible when Tom said them was a mystery of moving picture stars, but they did. Even with his needs eased and his brain wide-awake, Ben was still courting trouble here for no good reason.

"Maybe so." Ben stood and put his own drink down on the mahogany table. "But I'm fine just now. And your lady wife struck me as having a quick hand with the clippers."

"An interesting compliment." Tom stood as well, and shifted his thumbs into the belt loops on the front of his trousers. "Sure you won't change your mind?"

Ben squashed an urge to step back. "Don't think so, thankee." He looked around for where his Stetson had ended up earlier, scooped it up from a side table next to a lamp, and put it back on his head where it belonged.

Tom chuckled. It wasn't mean, but the sound was enough to make a man feel sheepish. Ben just felt wary. Then Tom approached with his hand outstretched.

Feeling like he was about to pet a wild mustang, Ben reached out his own hand.

"Well, well, well." A female voice, dark and throaty.

He had heard that voice before. Ben dropped his hand and turned to the door from the entrance hall right as Miss Inez Altura stalked into the living room. Whatever was on Ben's face, he sure as hell hoped it didn't look like guilt.

At least she wasn't talking to him yet. She said to Tom, "If it isn't Mr. Ben McClure, again. As for you, I could have sworn that you were going to a very important party with some very important people from Everest."

"Postponed, I'm afraid." Tom's shrug was calm as you could imagine. But he didn't go over to his wife, either.

"Gee whiz." She smiled even as Ben blinked at her choice of words. "Guess it's a good thing that my bridge evening was canceled, too."

"I thought it might be," Tom said.

Surprised, Ben looked at him. Then he glanced back to Miss Altura for her reaction. She seemed to be considering what her husband had just said, her head tilted to one side.

These waters were too deep and murky for Ben to ford. "I guess I'll just step out into the hall so you two can talk." He started in that direction.

"Hold it, Mister," Miss Altura said, and extended one long and graceful arm in a full out point. "You're not going anywhere." Ben stopped dead. In fact, they all froze, Miss Altura still holding her pose.

Ben realized they must look like an old-time parlor print, the sort of thing that could be titled _The Adulterer Surprised_. This was ridiculous enough to snap his temper at last. Even as his brows lowered, right as he was about to open his mouth and give the pair of them what-for, he was interrupted by yet another familiar, female voice.

This one was cheerful. "Hello! Sorry to be barging in, but the front doors were wide open. We shut them so you wouldn't get moths."

Miss Blake came sweeping in, with Johnny and Miss Margaret trailing behind her. Ben barely had time to notice how fancily they were all dressed when Miss Blake kept going right past him and up to Miss Altura, only to paste a kiss on her cheek. "Are you ready to go, Inez? You're not dressed yet, and you know how nightclubs fuss."

Slowly, Miss Altura narrowed her eyes. Still with the air of a thunderstorm rolling across the _llano_ , she asked, "And exactly what are you talking about?"

It was Miss Margaret, in that pretty, but precise, schoolmarm voice of hers, who said, "We're making up a party at The Black Cat tonight. Evie has been dying to see the new floorshow. Tom said you hadn't seen it, either."

There was an ominous pause before Miss Altura spoke again. "I have, actually." She turned to Tom and folded her arms over her bosom. "One night when Tom was out with his friends, I went to The Black Cat. I'm amazed I didn't meet up with him."

Tom Walker just stood there, one hand on his hip, looking faintly amused, God damn him. Then he said, "What a pity. I hoped you'd be surprised by this little adventure."

Before Miss Altura could take that cue, Johnny bulled in with, "Too bad. But that's okay. I know Ben came by in the truck while the girls picked me up, to make sure you'd be ready. But maybe we rushed? Do you need some more time to change?"

Miss Altura looked at him. She looked at Ben and then she looked at Miss Blake and Miss Margaret, both of whom had dug in their high heels and stood firm beneath her gaze. Finally, she turned again to Tom.

Her lush voice had never been more thrilling. "You know what? I don't think I like coming home to find someone has made social arrangements that should involve me in my absence."

With swift and vicious grace, Miss Altura slapped Tom hard, right across the chops. Then, without even a pause to gauge anyone's reaction, she went storming out of the living room and up the stairs in the entry hall. She sure did know how to make an exit.

As Tom stood looking after her, his cheek already reddening, he suddenly got an expression on his face that Ben recognized. It was the same, slight dipping of long lashes over glinting eyes that he had worn while he watched Ben and Johnny trade their awkward, enthusiastic hand jobs all those years ago. For the first time that evening, Tom was interested in what was happening, truly interested.

When he moved, it was like a catamount off to the hunt. He almost bounded up the big staircase in the same direction that his wife had disappeared, leaving behind the rest of his guests.

"Cut and print," Johnny said, to no one Ben could see.

"I guess they didn't feel like visiting The Black Cat tonight," was Miss Blake's contribution. She laced her arm through Ben's. "Come along, Oil Well Ben. I'm sure you've had enough of the Lives of the Stars at Home to last you for one evening."

Miss Margaret only tsked, but Ben would swear she was reining back a grin as she did so.

Miss Blake carried on. "Anyhow, I need alcohol. I think we've been very patient ever since someone bribed us out of our respective lairs with a promise of drinks and dancing, only to find that it also meant sitting around for eons in my car outside Tom Walker's house, waiting for the fun to begin."

Ben was astonished when Johnny flushed. "Yeah, well," he almost muttered.

"Thanks," Ben told them all. "Thank you very much," he added, making sure this was addressed to Johnny. Although it didn't really need saying, he kept right on going with, "Let's vamoose."

 

XII

This was the strangest nightclub Ben had ever been to, not that he had loitered in any others to compare. He suspected that, if he had, this place would still seem kind of odd.

The music the Negro band played was heavy on the saxophones. Tentatively, Ben decided that he liked it. About the dancers in the floorshow, on the other hand, he was still not sure. They were awfully good, but something was offish about them.

Leaning over to Johnny, who was sitting next to him at their table, Ben said, voice low, "What am I missing this time?"

"Check the wrists and necks."

Sure enough, on closer examination, all the ladies were wearing ribbons around their necks and ruffles around their wrists. Their features were real strong, too. Seemed as if they might not be ladies at all. "I guess that explains why they're so tall. Are we looking to be arrested, here?"

"Nah. The cops are paid off. And this kind of club is a craze right now. Probably stay that way for about three minutes, but I mean to enjoy those minutes while they last."

Well, at least the ladies who were not ladies could dance well, which was more than Ben could say for himself. However, both Miss Blake and Miss Margaret seemed to be getting a lot of enjoyment out of polishing up Ben's steps on the tiny dance floor once the show was done.

After a good dose of this fun, both ladies decided to go off to the retiring room together. Ben went to sit back down at their table, and Johnny shifted Ben's drink closer to him. The hooch in this place wasn't what you would call good, not up to Tom's standards, but it was still better than you got in Lea County. Ben drank, and felt himself relax from all the fuss and feathers of the evening. New experiences were what he had been seeking when he left the Allwell, after all.

"Bet this feels pretty far from New Mexico," Johnny said, in an odd echo of Ben's thoughts.

"About thirty-five miles northeast of here, there are horses and cattle settled in for the night, just like they are on the Allwell. Give me a week or two, and I'll have decided if I want to settle in up there, too. If you ignore all the movie folks running around, and all those odd buildings, and them renting the studios buggies and trick horses, the Red Gulch is still a ranch. Buying it would be more a matter of learning the ways of a new terrain than a new trade." He didn't look at Johnny. "Still, it is nice to know that there's this other life so close at hand to the region's cattle country."

Ben sensed, rather than saw, Johnny's thoughtful look. "Yeah. Okay. I get that."

"And I'm owed a tour of that life by my native guide."

"You'll need to stick around for me to have enough free time."

"I guess I could manage. Even if you did set out to use me as some kind of wildcard in the game between you and Tom Walker."

"Hey. No. I swear, while the idea of frustrating him was appealing, I only wanted you going up against him without some kind of crazy handicap. I've dealt with him long enough to know how compelling he can be."

"But it's still my choice, right?"

"Right." Johnny faked a shudder. "Although, if you're going to chase anyone that handsome and persuasive in this town, I have to warn you that there are usually complications."

"I did notice. Miss Altura was pretty educational."

"If you decide you need more variety, I can find you safer telephone numbers."

"Why? You that interested in quitting right in the middle of my tutoring?"

Their gazes caught and held. This time, neither of them bothered to look away. Johnny only said slowly, "Nah. Not interested."

"If you're not, you should be," Miss Blake said, and plopped down next to Johnny, who started to rise to acknowledge her presence. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him back down, and planted a big kiss on his ear. "Miss me, darling?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Thought so. Meg and I will take my car. I'll drop her off. You can drive Ben home."

Johnny's kiss in return was a lot more earnest, if more spurred by gratitude than heat, in Ben's opinion. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She switched her attention to Ben and leaned over to whisper, "Make him tell you about the Hollywood Girls' Club."

"All right," Ben said, keeping his words placid. He was beginning to figure out how to deal with her. She reminded him a lot of that dang pinto, with her own ways of doing whatever you asked her to do.

Once Miss Blake and Miss Margaret had left, while he and Johnny were still waiting for their check, Ben asked Johnny, "Girl's Club?"

"I'll explain later. We have other matters to discuss right now."

"Good, because I have a lot of questions."

Ben did, too. Around about one in the morning, after Johnny's long and detailed explanation how a fellow went about committing sodomy, he asked Ben, "Anything else?"

"What about courting?"

Johnny started. When Ben had settled on the couch again, Johnny had carefully taken the armchair three feet away, so Ben had a real good view of the twitch. "Okay. Fine. Not the question I expected after my lecture on the birds and the bees, the dicks and the asses, but what about courting?"

"Do fellows like us court?'

"Yeah, sometimes, something kind of like that. Are you hinting around?"

"Well." Ben studied his sock-clad toes. "It's only been three, four days, but we do both like each other. So, although I guess it's too early for anything serious even if I wanted to pitch woo right now--" he paused to grimace, "--which I do not, it seems like we could start keeping company."

"Just so you know, most times in these circles, there's a lot more sex than sipping on sodas together."

"Hell, I have nothing against fornication. Nothing at all. But it has also been a long time since I have seen a good soda fountain, come to think on it, let alone sucked down a decent chocolate malted."

"Right," Johnny said. He shook his head as if he was emerging from some vision. A movie director moment, Ben guessed. "I get you. So, we're going to keep company."

"Pretty certain, pretty sure." Ben tried his own version of a thousand-dollar smile. "Of course, that doesn't mean I want to skip over everything else you told me about. All that 'are you a horse or are you a rider' stuff."

"Cripes. Come on. Those weren't the terms I used."

Nope. He'd been careful in the words he had chosen to disguise his sales pitch as a lecture. "I agree, you missed them. And you a big-time Western director, too." Ben forced his expression to gravity. "You aren't going to toss me off if I slip and say _a viente_ , are you?"

Johnny's face was a picture. Then he snorted out a laugh. "I think I can manage not to." Standing, he bounced on his toes. "Especially since it's hard to visit a drugstore's soda fountain with a broken leg."

"Now, I call that a deal," Ben said, also standing, offering his hand for a shake.

"Sure. Deal. Great." Grabbing Ben's hand, Johnny dragged him off in the direction of his bedroom.

One thing you could say about these Hollywood rustlers. They did know where they were headed. Somehow, that was reassuring, when you were heading in the same direction yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> The brief descriptions in this story about how horses -- and riding extras -- were treated in early Westerns are actually on the mild side. Hollywood began as an unregulated factory town even for its stars; the anecdote about leading men leaping the old highway cut is not only true but happened multiple times. It's on film, if not film shot by Johnny Smith.
> 
> This story was originally published commercially through a small press, but all rights have reverted to me, where they remain. The usual fandom, not-for-profit permissions apply. Given the obvious fannish influences and tropes, it seemed possible to post it here. I hope you enjoy!


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